


How To Improve Your Mileage (And Other Romantic Shenanigans)

by smolalienbee



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Bentley is a wingman in this one, Crowley & Anathema Device Friendship, Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, FFS (Feral Fandom Saturdays), First Meetings, Fluff, Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), I don't know shit about cars and neither does Crowley, Includes art in later chapters, Mechanic Aziraphale, Mechanics, Meet-Cute, Minor Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Photographer Crowley, Queer Themes, Trans Anathema, Trans Character, genderqueer Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27657668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolalienbee/pseuds/smolalienbee
Summary: Anthony J Crowley is not having a good day.The Bentley has broken down and now he’s stuck in the middle of the road, with rain pouring down onto him. Fuck- this is a no-good, terrible, bad day.Until, that is, the broken car leads him to one angel of a mechanic, with soft hands and even softer heart. What is initially a purely accidental meeting ends up spurring a gentle, warm romance between the two of them.A human AU meet cute about genderqueer mechanics, lovesick photographers and… one charity calendar. Updates (hopefully) every other Saturday!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley & Anathema Device & Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 82
Collections: FFS (Feral Fandom Saturdays), Good Omens Human AUs





	1. 0 To 60 In 5 Sec

**Author's Note:**

> WELL here it is, the genderqueer mechanic au that no one has asked for, but that the certain feral server has yelled about enough to eventually end up tempting me into writing it. I've got plans for 7 chapters plus an epilogue and I swear I'm gonna write them all!!! Big shout out to Sev (sevdrag) for blessing me with car-related knowledge, Linden (under_a_linden_tree) for beta reading and also the entire feral server for making me write it and for all the brainstorming/ideas/suggestions, this fic would have never happened without you

“Fuck! Fuck shitshitshit fuck bugger it all! Fuuuuuu-”

Without thinking twice, Crowley’s hand flies forward. One slap to the wheel and then the Bentley’s horn cuts through the silence, startling him out of his frustration. He drops his forehead to the wheel and groans loudly, his entire body deflating. Today is, as far as Crowley can tell, not a good day. 

He’s stranded, in the middle of the road, his beloved car, his most precious Bentley, refusing to move forward while the rain’s beating all around them. Of course, he’s not angry with her- he could never be angry with her, but- well. There are horns blaring behind them and as he lifts his head, he can see a car passing by. The driver flips him off and Crowley snarls, baring his teeth at them. Today, he decides, can very well go to Hell. 

He closes his eyes and rubs at his temple. Maybe he can just- if he can just sink into the seat, disappear, poof and gone- right, but there’s another car honking at him and he needs to get a bloody move on, doesn’t he. He sighs and leans over to push the door open (the one on the left side of the car, he’s not an idiot1). He has to crawl over the centre console to get out, but soon enough his feet hit the ground and he grunts softly to himself, a shiver running through his body. Right, where does he even start? For all that he loves his dear Bentley, Crowley is… saying that he’s awful with cars would be an understatement, really. Mind you, he knows how to drive and how to do it well - he may be known for unnecessary speeding, but that doesn’t mean he’s a bad driver, strictly speaking (or so he says, anyway). He understands the feel of the wheel under his fingers, the press of the brakes, the rumbling of the engine. He _knows_ when something is wrong with his car because he can feel it in the thrumming of her parts, the way she coughs up or roars to life. She’s like a living being to him, at this point. The only issue? That knowledge, that feel he has for her doesn’t translate into any functioning knowledge. He doesn’t know the technical terms, he doesn't know the placement of the parts and you better not let him anywhere near any of the cables. So, now, standing on the side of the road, in the rain, the Bentley in front of him, quiet and still, he feels lost.

He lifts his glasses and scrubs at his face. Get yourself together, Crowley, it’s not the end of the world. _Or maybe it is,_ a tiny voice at the back of his head supplies, unhelpfully. Crowley groans and starts to pace back and forth, along the side of the Bentley. He pries his phone out of the pocket of his jeans. 

“Shuddup shuddup shuddup, not now, I don’t have time for thisss,” he hisses to himself as his fingers swiftly slide and tap on the screen. Really, the last thing he needs is a bloody breakdown over a bloody car. These things happen! Cars break! He can get it fixed! Now is _not the time_ , you miserable blasted excuse for a brain.

He keeps moving as he hurriedly looks up mechanics nearby. Closed, too far, terrible reviews… Oh, hm. There it is. Hell’s Vehicles? Sounds more like a band name than a repair shop, not that Crowley’s complaining. Looks… well, based on the reviews, looks like Crowley could, maybe, possibly, leave his baby there. That is, of course, if he even manages to get her there in the first place. Only one way to find out, Crowley.

Despite how drenched he already is, Crowley refuses to get back into the car. Instead, he keeps pacing around as he presses the phone to his ear. His eyes scan the road, the cars maneuvering around his Bentley. He goes as far as to stick his tongue out at a few of the drivers. It’s unnecessary and he knows it, but he is nothing if not dramatic. 

“Ah, it’s- dahling, do give me a minute, there’s a call-” the voice on the other side of the call speaks. It’s muffled, the words not directed at him, Crowley can easily tell. “Hello, sweetie! If you’re looking for car repairs, you’ve called the right number. How may I help you?” 

“I-” Crowley flounders briefly, his brain struggling to keep up with his mouth, “Err- Hey. I have a car- thing- issue-” _Of course you have a car issue, you dimwit, why else would you call a repair shop? Use your words for once in your godforsaken life, Anthony._ “I’m kinda- stuck, middle of the road, car won’t move. It’s a- uh- Bentley, from the 1930s, if that helps, saw your place specializes in vintages…” 

He’s quiet for a moment as he listens to the woman talk. He saunters over to the Bentley, humming into the receiver as he does. He leans against her side, but jumps away almost immediately, startled by how cold and wet her metal feels. He makes a face up at the sky and grumbles under his breath. 

“What? No, sorry- uh- Yeah, okay- got it- yeah, ‘course I’m not going anywhere- it’s- okay. Right. Thanks. Thanks.”

The call ends and Crowley lets out a long breath. All that’s left is to wait for a tow truck and then- well, hopefully Bentley will be fine. 

“You better not die on me, old girl,” he murmurs, patting her side gently. “Don’t you even dare.”

* * *

The drive to the repair shop is… something. 

Crowley is- he doesn’t _like_ people, as a general rule, but that doesn’t mean he’s bad with them. Or that he doesn’t know how to read them. There are exceptions to this rule, though, and the man next to him seems to be one of them. Crowley is struggling to make any sense out of him.

He’s currently in the passenger seat of a tow truck, his Bentley loaded on the flatbed in the back. Next to him, a gruff man in his- 50s? 60s? Crowley’s not entirely sure. The man keeps muttering to himself and scowling at the road, almost as if he had forgotten there’s another person in the seat next to him. There’s a part of Crowley that’s relieved he hasn’t decided to wear a skirt or heels today because this man (Shadwell, as he introduced himself earlier, holding Crowley’s hand in a nearly bone crushing grip) looks like the sort of person that- well, let’s just say Crowley wouldn’t want to run into him in the middle of the night and in full drag. It’s not like Crowley wants to make assumptions, but he’s had enough run-ins with arseholes over the years to be wary of people like that. He sprawls out in the seat, as casually as he can manage. Only his foot is moving, bouncing up and down anxiously.

“So,” Shadwell speaks up. He doesn’t sound like he really wants to talk. Crowley raises an eyebrow at him, lifting a hand to push his sunglasses up his nose, shielding his eyes completely from this stranger. “‘s a nice car you got there, kid.”

“Yup.”

“Expensive, too.”

“Yup.”

Shadwell glances over at him, then back at the road. Crowley says nothing, waiting for him to elaborate.

“...you mafia, kid?”

“Nope.”

They stop at a light and Shadwell gives him a long look. Crowley stares right back at him, lips pressed into a thin line. If the guy doesn’t believe him then, well, that’s his problem. At least it means he won’t give him any trouble. 

“Right,” Shadwell grunts eventually, pressing down on the pedal. They move forward once again and Crowley slumps into his seat. Anathema’s gonna get a kick out of this later, he thinks.

The rest of the drive passes in silence (not counting Shadwell cursing out all the other drivers). In a matter of minutes, they park outside what Crowley can only assume to be Hell’s Vehicles2. He stumbles out of the car as soon as the truck stops, eager to get out of the stuffy, uncomfortable space and back into the fresh air, even if that means facing the rain again. He’s always rather liked the rain, anyway. He sways, stepping all over the grass before he shifts and turns to look up at the Bentley as she’s being moved from the tow truck onto the floor of the garage. Crowley shuffles his feet, but before he has the time to decide who to turn to or where to go, a voice calls from nearby.

“Oh there you two are! Yes, Tracy told me you went to pick them up- where is- oh good Lord, the poor dear is soaked through, where are the towels…”

Crowley spins around to look for the source of the voice. It’s like a slap to the face when his eyes finally land on the right person. It takes him maybe half a second to decide that this is the most handsome person he has ever seen. The first thing that draws him in are the hair, the blond, nearly white, curls, and then his gaze moves down (he’s never been as grateful for his sunglasses as he is now) and there are bright eyes and round, pink cheeks, framed by wrinkles and laugh lines. He’s well-built, with a round stomach and broad shoulders, solid yet soft at once, dressed in a blue flannel, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the warm skin underneath. His clothes look old, clearly meant for the messy parts of car work and oh, grease stains have never been more attractive than now. Crowley’s nearly itching to take his hands into his, to stroke the plump fingers and pepper kisses all over his calluses… god, fuck, Crowley, you couldn’t be any gayer if you tried. 

“Hello!”

Crowley startles, blinking his way out of this particular daydream only to see the same man whose hands he’s just been staring at standing in front of him. In fact, these hands are now moving all over the place, a small wave in a greeting, then an arm outstretched towards him, offering him a towel. 

“Here you go, please, dry yourself off, you must be feeling awful right now,” the man rambles. Crowley, still feeling rather out of it, takes the offered towel. He looks blankly at it before finally bringing it up to his hair to dry it off. 

Meanwhile, the man in front of him is still moving. With his hands free, he offers one of them for a handshake before he catches himself on the gesture and bashfully pulls it back.

“I apologize, I’ve been working, best if we don’t shake hands right now,” he says quickly. It seems like his fingers can never be quite still. Even now, as he’s given up on the handshake, he’s brushing the pads of his fingers over the fabric of his flannel, tugging and pinching and fidgeting. Crowley finds it to be strangely captivating.

“Er, ngh- hands- nyehhhh- I mean- not shaking, yeah, um, that’s fine, totally fine with me,” Crowley’s tongue and teeth and his whole mouth struggle to put the sounds together into something that even vaguely resembles letters and the English language. He quickly decides to shut up and focus on moving the towel over his hair and body. His clothes have mostly dried off during the drive to the garage, but he still appreciates the gesture.

When he looks up, he notices the man is smiling at him and it’s as if yet another Cupid’s arrow has been shot, straight into his heart. He’s truly and utterly fucked. “I take it you’re the owner of that lovely Bentley, yes? I’m Aziraphale, I- ah, well, I own this place, I’ll be looking after your vehicle.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeats, dumbly, hoping to buy himself enough time to gather all the spare brain cells he has left bouncing around in his skull. “‘s nice to meet you. Name’s Crowley- yeah, Bentley’s mine. She, uh- not doing so well today, I’m sure you can tell. You know, wouldn’t even be here if she was.”

Aziraphale nods and smiles again. He seems to hesitate, for just a beat, before opening his arms, gesturing vaguely towards the towel Crowley’s still holding. He hands it over to him without a word and gets yet one more smile in response. 

“So-” the man speaks as he turns away from him, carrying the towel towards a chair. Crowley follows obediently, shoving his hands into his pockets, “Oh!” his tone changes almost immediately and he spins around to face him. The movement is so sudden that Crowley nearly walks into him. “Oh, dear, Tracy mentioned you were driving when it happened, you must be in a rush, aren’t you? A job interview, perhaps-”

“A what now?” Crowley blurts out, cutting into Aziraphale’s words. Aziraphale tilts his head and it’s quite obvious he’s not sure what Crowley’s asking about. “A- wait, do I look like I’m unemployed?” as he asks that, he makes a spectacle of looking all over himself. A soft, amused snort answers him and he looks back up.

“No, no, that’s not what I was trying to imply at all, I think you look very-” there’s a pause, as he looks Crowley up and down. He can feel his face go red and he tries to play it cool by leaning against a nearby wall, crossing his arms as he does so. “-stylish.”

“Ngk- gk- thanks.”

And as if things weren’t bad enough, Crowley’s quite sure Aziraphale’s smile turns smug as soon as he notices the flush on his face. Crowley tips his head, doing his damndest best to hide his embarrassment. He clears his throat awkwardly.

“I assume that means you’re not in a rush to any job interviews, then, dear,” Aziraphale finally takes mercy on him, chuckling softly as he speaks. 

“Not really, no,” Crowley breaks into a small smile of his own. Aziraphale looks at him for a moment before he moves in the direction of the Bentley. Crowley pushes himself away from the wall and trails after him.

“Photography.”

“Hmm?”

“That’s what I do. Photography.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely,” Aziraphale beams, turning towards him. “Professionally?”

“Mhm. Yeah.”

Aziraphale hums softly. He walks around the Bentley, his eyes trailing over the smooth expanse of the metal. Watching him, Crowley realizes he can’t quite pinpoint the color of his eyes.

“Can I take a picture of you?” he blurts out and it doesn’t hit him what he had just asked until he sees the surprised and flattered look on Aziraphale’s face. “Just- y’know, do your thing. Don’t mind me. I just- er-”

“Can you?” Aziraphale responds, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He doesn’t give him time to react though. “Yes, Crowley. You may.”

Crowley nods and then, rather than head to the Bentley to get his camera, he fumbles to get his phone out. There’s no time, he decides, to get anything else - it wouldn’t be the same, if he moved from that spot, if he had to ask Aziraphale to step away from the car3. Aziraphale smiles softly at him and continues his journey around his car, looking it over, not paying Crowley much mind as he pushes his glasses up onto the top of his head and pulls his phone up to his eye. Crowley knows that while he’s taking the pictures, it doesn’t look like he’s doing much - it’s as if he’s taking shot after shot without even properly thinking them through. In reality, though, isn’t that kind of the point? Crowley has always been interested in capturing the moment, just as it is, the movement, the light, the color and the atmosphere. That’s why he’s learned to take many pictures at a time, that’s why he doesn’t look at them in the moment. He waits until much later, when his own memory is blurred at the edges. He knows from experience the best shots he’s ever taken were ones he didn’t even recall taking.

“So why Hell’s Vehicles?” he asks idly, half of his face still obscured by the phone. Aziraphale laughs and Crowley hurriedly taps the screen to try and capture that laughter.

“It’s not Hell, dear. It’s Fell. Fell’s Vehicles,” he corrects gently, “That’s my name. Aziraphale Fell.”

“Huh. I could swear when I looked it up it said Hell…”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale straightens out his back. “People regularly get it wrong. It’s rather amusing, really.”

Crowley hums in understanding and they both fall silent after that, each of them occupied in their separate tasks. Crowley eventually shoves his phone back into his pocket, letting Aziraphale pull him back to the present moment to focus on the car and the repairs needed. 

The rest of the conversation doesn’t drift away from the Bentley much. Crowley nods as Aziraphale explains what he needs to check, what the waiting times for the parts are, what’s the price range like. It’s not like he understands much of the technical details of what Aziraphale is telling him, but the man seems to know his stuff and so Crowley quickly decides he can trust him with his car.

“Right, well,” Crowley says once everything is talked through and decided, “I’m leaving her in your capable hands, then. Just let me get my junk out of the backseat and then I’ll be out of your hair. As soon as I manage to get an Uber, anyway,” he makes a face as though just the thought of riding in an Uber is repulsive to him.

“Ah, wait just a moment, dear boy,” Crowley’s already on his way to the Bentley. He turns his head slightly and cocks an eyebrow in a silent question. “Perhaps I could give you a lift? I need to head out for a bit anyway, it’s not like I would be going out of my way.”

Crowley pauses, one arm resting on the Bentley’s open door, the other reaching inside. He twists his body at a rather awkward angle and glances over at Aziraphale. “What?” he mutters. His eyes flicker between the equipment in the back of his car - the folded up tripod, two bags filled with lenses - and the man standing nearby. It doesn’t take him long to make up his mind. 

“Nnnng- yeah. Sure. Sounds good.”

Aziraphale gives him another one of those blinding smiles and Crowley breathes out shakily, hurriedly turning back towards his car to occupy himself with gathering his things. 

“Wonderful! Give me ten minutes and I’ll meet you outside.”

Crowley nods weakly and then leans his forehead against the smooth, cold metal of his car. He’s signed himself up for a car ride with the prettiest man he’s ever seen and he’s not entirely sure how he’s going to survive it. Fuuuuuuuuuuck. 

(Perhaps today is not nearly as bad as he thought it would be.) 

* * *

As it turns out, the ride with Aziraphale is not nearly as awkward as the one with Shadwell had been. Of course, that doesn’t surprise Crowley much - he’s already noticed that there’s something about Aziraphale, about his way of being, that makes it easy to talk to him, that lets Crowley click right into place. And, really, it’s nice, it is, but the only problem is, with no awkwardness floating in the air, he doesn’t have much to distract himself from Aziraphale’s physical form. The way his blue/grey/green4 eyes are focused entirely on the road. The way his hands grip the steering wheel tightly, but gently, the pads of his fingers brushing over it every once in a while, as if feeling out the texture. The way he sits - his posture almost inhumanly stiff, back and legs straight. They don’t talk much, now, apart from Crowley occasionally pointing in a direction or reminding him of an upcoming street. Aziraphale seems like he’s confident in his driving and yet he rarely takes his eyes off the road nor does he let either of his hands move off the wheel unless necessary.

Crowley settles into the silence rather easily and isn’t that something new. He’s… his relationship with silence is complicated at best. It’s not that he doesn’t like it - he’s dealt with plenty of it over the years living on his own. It’s just that it’s never quite right and it’s always, _always,_ been easier to scream over his own thoughts, to cover them up with as much noise as humanly possible. Ranging from parties to just blasting loud music in the empty flat, anything and everything that would make it difficult to think. Even when he’s with other people, there has to be something, a conversation, noise, anything and it’s not like Crowley considers himself to be incredibly talkative, that doesn’t seem to matter when the alternative is the crushing weight of anxiety and the intrusive voice, always always always there to remind him of what a failure he truly is. 

Here, it’s different. 

It’s not that it’s completely quiet - his thoughts are as loud as ever, of course they are, but it’s not crushing him. He doesn’t get it, not really, but it’s almost as if… almost as if Aziraphale had this aura to him, as if his own confidence radiated out and wrapped itself around Crowley like a warm, cozy blanket. And isn’t that a silly thought. Crowley would berate himself for even daring to let his thoughts wander in that direction if only it didn’t feel as good as it does.

He’s well and truly fucked.

The car comes to a stop and Crowley doesn’t even realize at first that they’re outside his block of flats. Aziraphale clears his throat and Crowley blinks, only then noticing where they are. Aziraphale’s looking at him - their eyes meet and Crowley lets himself get lost in the depth of them for just a few seconds longer before he throws himself into motion. 

“Well- rgh- thanks for the lift,” he blurts out, pushing the door open and nearly launching himself out of the car. He’d like to think he’s being graceful, but he knows what the reality is. Way to make a good first impression, Crowley.

He cringes as he pulls the back door open with what is probably more force than strictly necessary. Aziraphale’s still looking at him as he gathers his equipment and Jesus, why is he even getting so worked up about any of this?

“I hope you’ll have a pleasant evening, dear. Mind how you go!”

He lifts his gaze. He’s awkwardly cradling his equipment to his chest and after a second, two, three, he finally breaks into a small smile.

“Yeah, um- you too. Thanks. Bye.”

He closes the car door before he has a chance to make an even bigger fool of himself. Aziraphale waves and then, as Crowley takes a step back, the engine of his car roars. He drives away, leaving Crowley alone with just his stupid, old, romantic heart hammering out melodies in his chest.

He needs a drink. Or to bury himself in a hole. Or both.

* * *

**Witch Don't Do It** _Today at 20:52_

_You still on for tomorrow?_

Crowley’s phone vibrates with a new message and he tears his eyes off the computer screen to glance over at it.

It’s late in the evening, now, and he’s settled himself at his desk, a glass of wine at his side, his phone plugged into the computer as the pictures from the day copy on over. He taps on the screen a few times to pull up Discord and then taps out a quick response.

**ajcrowley** _Today at 20:53_

_yah but u gotta get newt to drive me there. Bentley’s upset with me_

**Witch Don't Do It** _Today at 20:53_

_Upset? What happened?_

_I could give you a ride on the bike_

**ajcrowley** _Today at 20:54_

_bike’s out, i gotta grab some stuff with me_

_she just stopped moving idk what it was about. shes at a repair shop now_

**Witch Don't Do It** _Today at 20:54_

_You left your baby with a stranger? Anthony J Crowley, i’m proud of you_

**ajcrowley** _Today at 20:54_

_shuddup its not like i had a choice_

**Witch Don't Do It** _Today at 20:55_

_Im gonna call newt and see if he can pick you up tomorrow brb_

Crowley lets his phone be as he moves his attention back to the computer. Now that the pictures have finished copying over, he pulls up one of them and- he nearly melts, suddenly faced with Aziraphale and his lazer focus. His eyes are blue in this one, Crowley notes before his brain catches up with his own thoughts. Oh, god, this is ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. Completely absolutely bloody ridiculous. 

**ajcrowley** _Today at 20:57_

_ithinkimfucked_

He knows Anathema won’t respond immediately, but he has to get it off his chest before he ends up overthinking and bottling it up as he does with most things in his life. He takes a long sip of the wine before he reaches for the mouse and clicks through the various pictures of Aziraphale.

Some of them aren’t great - blurry, badly lit, Aziraphale completely turned away from the camera. Crowley deletes those without a second thought. Some of them, though…

In this one, Aziraphale’s laughing. Crowley remembers that moment - right when he asked about the name of the shop. His fingertips are brushing over the hood and he’s leaning in close to the Bentley. His gaze (green, this time) seems to be focused on the windshield, even as he’s reacting to Crowley’s words. He must’ve been standing right underneath one of the garage lights because his hair seems to be glowing, blue-ish and harsh under the artificial light. It’s cheesy, Crowley knows, but the image immediately makes him think of an angel. Suits the name, he supposes.

Crowley drums his fingers on his desk, looking at the picture for a moment before finally coming to a decision. He moves the file into the editing folder. He already knows this is the best picture of Aziraphale he’s got so far.

**Witch Don't Do It** _Today at 21:01_

_Fucked how_

_Btw Newt says he can pick you up_

**ajcrowley** _Today at 21:01_

_just fucked fuckedfuckfuckittyfuckmywholefuckinglife_

**Witch Don't Do It** _Today at 21:01_

_Anthony._

**ajcrowley** _Today at 21:03_

_just_

_ugh_

_a sec_

He pulls up the same photo on his phone and then in a few taps sends it off to Anathema. He tries not to stare too long at that laughing face.

**Witch Don't Do It** _Today at 21:05_

_Oh yeah. I see your point. You’re right, you’re fucked_

**ajcrowley** _Today at 21:05_

_an angel is fixing my car. good lord someone save me_

**Witch Don't Do It** _Today at 21:05_

_You’ve got it bad_

Crowley sighs heavily, slumping in his chair. The picture is still on his screen and at this point it’s taunting him. How is a person allowed to be this pretty?

He reaches for the bottle and refills his glass. He knows it’s gonna be a while before he’s over him and oh God he’ll have to see him at least once more, won’t he.

 _Prepare yourself for another heartbreak_ , the voice in his head says. Crowley closes his eyes and sinks further into his chair. He doesn’t even really know the guy and yet… He’s not looking forward to what he knows is coming. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s set his heart on someone only to have it split into far too many jagged pieces.

1 \- Not just that, but he’d rather avoid getting hit by an annoyed driver. Not today, Death.

2 \- There’s a sign, out front, but it's old and smudged up, spelling out only part of the name - ell's ehicles.

3 \- It’s not even an issue, really - the camera in his phone is the best of the best and he rarely uses his phone for anything other than photography.

4 \- These are the colors Crowley has noticed so far - he’s certain he will see more, if he gets to see Aziraphale again.


	2. Angle of Approach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tightens his grip on the basket and hurriedly darts to the side, right behind a crisps stand. He peeks over the side of it and he’s sure people are staring, but he has far bigger worries on his mind than that. His one, biggest and most important worry is, in fact, Aziraphale, who’s currently casually browsing the wine section, completely oblivious to Crowley’s presence nearby. He’s- well, he’s a sight to behold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, actually getting the chapter out on time!! It's exactly 11PM for me as i'm typing it but it sure as hell means Saturday is not over yet. In this chapter lots of Tesco shenanigans happen and Crowley is as gay as ever. Truly, a typical day. Thanks once again to Linden (under_a_linden_tree) for beta-ing and to the feral server for putting up with me, love y'all

There’s a ruckus, as doors open and close, and then two pairs of footsteps getting closer, heading down the hall towards the conference room, where TNBQA5 holds their meetings. The footsteps are followed by hollering (“Anathema! Witch! We’re here! Your boyfriend hasn’t crashed!”) and then Crowley bursts into the room in a flurry of red hair and black clothes. He knows how to make an entrance, thank you very much.

TNBQA is, quite literally, Crowley’s second home. A queer collective that he had stumbled upon years ago, on accident, and he has never even _thought_ about leaving, ever since. They had taken him under their wing when he had no one, not long after he had first met Anathema. The two of them nearly fought each other, at first, but it was just a matter of time before they became inseparable. Anathema was the one who pulled him up and dragged him along till he got better and till he got here.

These days, his main involvement in TNBQA is photojournalism (and any other kind of photography needed on a given day). Whenever there’s a public event - Pride, a publication, anything that requires photos taken - Crowley’s there with his camera. It’s the best way he knows to help, when he can hide himself behind the lenses, an anonymous face that captures everyone and everything else. It’s peaceful, in a way, when he can completely disappear in the middle of a crowd6.

“Keep it down, you menace,” Anathema calls out, lifting her gaze from her laptop to look at the two walking in. Crowley just grins at her, sauntering over to one of the office chairs standing nearby. He plops down into it, dropping his bags to the ground and then spinning around in it. Newt walks in much more calmly and makes his way over to Anathema first, handing her a thermos of coffee and a lunch bag before leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek.

“Can’t keep me quiet, witch, you should know that,” Crowley says between the spins. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t even glance over at him. She leans in for another kiss with Newt and pointedly ignores Crowley’s exaggerated groan. “I didn’t come here to watch you two be gross,” he whines.

“Are you five?”

“ _Forty_ -five, yeah.”

Newt finally unwraps himself from Anathema, if only to sit down in the chair next to her. Crowley’s quite sure they’re playing footsies right under the desk. They’re so disgustingly in love that he sometimes tears up a little watching them. Just a little, though. And it’s always hidden behind his sunglasses. Bloody embarrassing, is what it is.

“So, lovebirds,” he drawls, doing one more spin before stopping the chair with a leg. He sprawls out some more, as if his limbs had grown longer since he had sat down. “What’s on the agenda for today? What’s the new shiny secret project?”

Anathema smiles mysteriously at the question and shifts in her chair, her long skirts shuffling along with her. Newt’s one arm is propped up on the armrest of her chair, his hand laced with hers. She reaches out with her left to type something on the laptop, then pushes at it to turn the screen towards Crowley. It’s still not angled perfectly so he’s forced to move, rolling his chair closer to the desk till he can lean on it and peak at the screen.

“You know how we’ve been thinking about getting some money for the community, right?” Anathema begins, lifting her hand and pointing with a finger at the screen, just far enough so that her black nail doesn’t scratch at it. “Here’s my plan - we’re finally putting your artistic skills to a proper use, Crowley.”

Crowley tips his head, letting his glasses slide down his nose until he can get a better look at Anathema. “A calendar,” he says, deadpan.

“A problem?” she challenges immediately. He shrugs, leaning back and folding his arms on top of his chest.

“I dunno. Isn’t it a little bit… overdone? Cheesy? Uhhhh-” he pushes his glasses up with one hand, searching for the right word all the while. “Corporate, I guess. Feels like we’re doing bloody corporate promotion.”

“I don’t think it will feel corporate if it doesn’t look like it,” Newt chimes in, “And we already talked to Adam- he said he can put it together.”

Anathema grins, her eyes lingering on Newt for a bit before she turns towards Crowley again. “Yeah, hear it, Crowley? Listen to my boyfriend, he’s right.”

Crowley lets out a breath. “Right, well- what’s the _whole_ plan, then? C’mon, ‘Thema, work with me here, gimme a brief, you know I’m not gonna be reading all these tiny letters.” He unfolds his arms just enough to wave one of them towards the laptop.

“The plan is this - we’re making a calendar, we’re selling it, the money goes to local queer businesses. Me and Newt are already working on a list of places we could donate to. We’re thinking of a fundraiser, too - you know, a whole party, when we release it. Now, we’re nailing down the details and we already know Adam can design it and we’ve got contacts at that printing company - so we just need you-” she points her finger at him, “to do the most important part. The pictures.”

Crowley hums softly, scrubbing at his chin. “Yeah, okay. Anyone in particular we want in it?”

“Queer business owners, mostly. Freelancers. Artists. Depends on who’s available and who will agree. I’m gonna send you some of the contacts we already have, but that’s probably not going to be enough for a full calendar.”

“I’m guessing you want me to find them, then.”

“Yeah, if you can.”

Crowley nods in agreement. “Sure thing, boss,” he teases, “So just… photos of queers being queer, I guess. I can work with that. Send me the rest of the info, deadlines, all that and I’ll figure it out. Keep you updated, too.”

Anathema smiles thankfully at him. She reaches over to close the tab on her current window then takes a sip of her coffee before standing up. She kisses the top of Newt’s head as she passes by him, letting him take over her spot at the computer. He digs around in his bag for a moment until he can pull out a thick, old notebook and then he settles in fully, alternating between typing on the keyboard (always careful, one key at a time) and scribbling in the notebook. Meanwhile, Anathema moves across the room, towards where a few chairs and desks are pushed against a wall and stacked on top of each other. Crowley’s pretty sure there’s gonna be a support group happening soon enough so he stands up as well and heads towards her.

“Now- Crowley,” she speaks, glancing over at him, “now that we’ve got that out of the way- you gotta tell me all about that angel of yours,” she wiggles her eyebrows at him and he snorts, stepping closer to gently shove at her shoulder.

“Shut it, witch,” he grunts.

Anathema grins, but doesn’t push. Instead, she gets to work, moving desks, putting chairs down on the ground. Crowley’s right alongside her and they work in tandem, like they often do. A gentle push and pull, prod here and there until one of them cracks enough to fill the space with their thoughts.

Crowley sighs. “Okay, well. He’s not actually an angel- obviously- but I’m pretty sure he _could be_ , if he, like, you know, flew up and knocked on Heaven’s door and asked for a promotion,” he knows he’s rambling and stalling, but, oh, give him a bloody break for once. He breathes in deeply, his hands grasping the edge of a table that he’s lifting together with Anathema. “And, okay, he’s- he’s the owner of this car shop. What was it again… Hell’s,” he pauses for a bit, squints at his own hands as he tries to remember the name, “wasn’t Hell’s that’s for sure- Fell’s!” he exclaims suddenly. “Fell’s Vehicles.”

“Oh. I work there.”

Newt’s soft, calm voice is a strange contrast to the ruckus that Crowley causes in just a few seconds following the words. The table slips from his grip and it’s truly a miracle that when its legs hit the floor, they completely miss either of his feet.

“You WOT?!” he hollers, now waving his arms around and staring at Newt.

“Cro-” Anathema begins, lowering her half of the table down to the ground. Crowley’s far too busy to pay attention to her. He’s already circling it and heading back towards the desk, head lowered, hazel eyes directed straight at Newt over the rim of his glasses.

“I- uh. I work there, Crowley. You know, as a car mechanic…? You knew that-”

“Aziraphale’s your bloody _boss_?”

“He is, yeah. He’s been for a while, now. I thought you knew-”

At this point, Crowley’s hands are resting on the edge of the desk, gripping the wood while he stares Newt down. Anathema comes up behind him, arms crossed on her chest.

“Crowley, you’re not being serious- did you really not know Newt works there?”

“No!” Crowley spins around to face her, throwing his arms out as he moves. She barely dodges him and reaches out to grasp one of his arms and lower it gently. “How was I supposed to know?”

“You two talk? And he’s mentioned his job before.”

“Well I knew he works as a mechanic, I didn’t know it was _this specific place_!”

Newt opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Crowley’s already making a scene of sliding down to the ground. He groans, leaning his back against the desk once he’s properly seated on the floor.

“I cannot believe it. Betrayal! Betrayal! Betrayed by my own best friends!” he cries, throwing his arms out before burying his face in his hands. Anathema and Newt, both of them used to dealing with his theatrics, are completely unaffected by it - Newt returns to his own work while Anathema makes her way back to the chairs and desks that still haven’t been set up.

“So you’re just gonna sulk there, then?”

“Yes, actually! Just you watch me!” Crowley responds, words muffled by his own hands.

“How is this such a big deal, anyway? That he’s Newt’s boss,” Anathema asks idly, still moving through the same motions as before. Crowley slowly lifts his head to watch her for a moment.

“Could’ve met him before,” he grumbles softly.

“Right, and? You really think you’d let us set you up for a date with him?” she shoots him a knowing look.

“...no, probably not,” he admits, tilting his head till it hits the desk with a soft thud.

“Exactly.”

“Shuddup, smartass.”

“Are you going to ask him out now?”

There’s a pause as Crowley mulls it over in his head. There’s a part of him that already knows the answer to this question - he knows his own track record. He knows he’s a mess when it comes to romantic relationships - he falls far too quick and far too deep. He overwhelms people. He’s made peace with it, at some point, that he may never be able to find someone who can keep up with him. Or at least he thinks he’s made peace with it.

“...ehhhhh,” he makes a vague noise, “Mhm- er- no.”

Anathema turns and crosses her arms on top of her chest. Crowley already knows what she’s going to say and so he quickly makes the decision to move. He jumps to his feet and effectively cuts her off before she says anything.

“Don’t. Okay?”

“Crowley-”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” he snaps, but then, almost instantly, catches himself on his own tone. He runs a hand down his face and sighs. “Sorry. I just- just leave it, okay? Please. I know you- um- I know you wanna help. But it’s not- ‘s not even a big deal. _I_ am making a bigger deal out of it than it really is. So just-” he waves his hand dismissively and shakes his head. “Got it?”

They look at each other for a moment before Anathema relents, uncrossing her arms. “Yeah, Crowley. I got it. Sorry for pushing,” she says and Crowley can tell she means it. He gives her a weak smile.

“‘s fine,” he assures. “I should get going, anyway. No rest for the wicked, all that. Got stuff to do.”

He doesn’t, not really. Nothing that’s urgent, anyway- but the room feels stuffy, far too stuffy, and while he’s not upset with her, he knows he needs a breather and to be alone. Better than blowing up at his friends anyway.

“I’ll see ya troublemakers later,” he says as he grabs one of his bags, “Make sure no one nicks my stuff!” he adds, gesturing towards the other bag that he’s left on the floor.

He’s out the door before either of them can really respond. It’s only when he’s alone that he realizes his hands are shaking. He needs to get a grip. He needs- he doesn’t know what he needs, not really. He shoves them into his pockets and makes his way out of the building.

* * *

Crowley taps his fingers on his thigh, a mindless melody as he passes through the aisles. He’s already resigned himself to shopping every other day if he doesn’t want to lug giant bags of groceries with him, now that his car is still out of commission. At least this Tesco isn’t far from his flat, the only silver lining to the whole thing. He reaches up to fix his earphones and bops his head, a barely noticeable movement, as the song switches to something faster. He saunters past the other customers, glances around, in search of the alcohol aisle. Snacks, water, fizzy drinks… Ah. There it is. Just walk past this man and- bloody hell, why are these people just standing in the middle of the way? And- oh.

Crowley stops in his tracks and barely, _barely_ keeps himself from just turning around and running away the second his eyes land on a far-too-familiar figure standing in front of the wine shelf. The angel.

Crowley tightens his grip on the basket and hurriedly darts to the side, right behind a crisps stand. He peeks over the side of it and he’s sure people are staring, but he has far bigger worries on his mind than that. His one, biggest and most important worry is, in fact, Aziraphale, who’s currently casually browsing the wine section, completely oblivious to Crowley’s presence nearby. He’s- well, he’s a sight to behold.

Aziraphale looks completely different than when they first met. If it wasn’t for the blonde curls, the familiar face, the hands- Crowley’s not sure he’d be able to recognize him as the same person. He’s dressed in fresh, clean clothes, no old stains or battered shirts. Instead, a crisp, light blue dress shirt and then a soft beige jumper layered on top of it. Below the jumper peeks out a long skirt, so long that it reaches Aziraphale’s ankles. It’s a simple cut, cobalt blue and it rustles with every movement. He’s also wearing a bowtie, Crowley notices belatedly, in blue tartan. He’s not just handsome, now, he’s beautiful and pretty and fuuuuuuuuuuuuu-

Crowley ducks completely behind the stand and buries his face in his hands, hoping to muffle the groan that escapes him. When he lifts his head again, there’s a child standing nearby and staring at him. He plasters on a tight smile and waves at them until the kid scrunches up their face and runs off in another direction. Well. That went just as well as most of Crowley’s human interactions.

He peeks over the crisps once more, just to see- and yeah, sure enough, the angel’s still there, now comparing two bottles of wine. Gather yourself together, Crowley. Just come up to him, say hi, play it cool. Definitely do not tell him that you’ve been watching him for- has it really been five minutes already? Take a breath, Crowley, yes, deep, in and out- just like this. It’s fine. This is fine. He has no idea.

Crowley quickly smooths down his clothes, takes another breath, runs a hand through his hair. He stands up straight before finally, finally walking out from behind the stand. He saunters, whistling softly to himself and breaks into what he hopes comes across as a confident smile as he approaches.

“Aziraphale!” he says in a greeting. He circles him before coming to stand at his side, swaying on his heels. “Fancy running into you here.”

“Oh, my- Crowley!” Aziraphale turns to him, surprised, though his expression quickly relaxes into a gentle smile as his gaze rakes all over Crowley. Crowley tips his head back, preening under the weight of Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Hello, angel,” he drawls. It’s only when the words leave his mouth that he realizes what he’s just said, but it’s already too late to take it back. He lets his smirk widen as if the nickname had been completely purposeful. “‘s good to see you.”

To his satisfaction, Aziraphale flusters and smiles, his eyes flickering away from Crowley’s face for a moment. “Ah- yes, it’s good to see you, too, dear boy.”

“Well, what brings you here?”

“What could possibly bring me to a Tesco, dear?” Aziraphale chuckles, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Crowley sputters, making a few vague movements with his hand before finally shrugging and leaning carefully against a shelf.

“Errr- y’know. ‘s just- a thing- that people ask, you know how it is.”

“You’re very sweet,” Aziraphale hums casually, moving to put one of the bottles back on the shelf. He says it so calmly that the words barely register with Crowley and once they do, his entire face turns red.

“Sweet- me- mhm, not really. I’m a menace, y’know. A true troublemaker-” he protests, but gets cut off when Aziraphale’s piercing eyes meet his, “-um. Yup. Terrible menace, me.”

“I’d have never been able to tell.”

Is he making fun of him? Crowley tilts his head, letting his glasses slide down his nose, for the first time revealing his eyes to Aziraphale as he takes a long look at him.

“ _Wow_ , Aziraphale. Wow.”

And the bastard just flashes a smile and puffs his chest out proudly. Damn. Crowley’s fucked.

“What do you think about this one, dear?” Aziraphale suddenly asks, turning back to the shelf as if he hadn’t just ripped Crowley’s heart straight out of his chest, put it in a tiny, comfy box, locked it up and hidden it under his own jumper. He points at one of the bottles of 7 Moons Dark Side Red Blend and Crowley squints at it briefly.

“I- uh, it’s fine, I suppose?” Crowley’s taken aback enough that he doesn’t know how to respond at first. “Depends on what you’re into, I suppose- but- when it comes to reds, maybe this one?” he takes a step closer, his leg brushing just barely against the folds of Aziraphale’s skirt. He picks up one of the Gnarly Head bottles and hands it over to Aziraphale who looks it over critically before breaking into a small smile.

“I think I’ll just take both,” he says eventually, glancing at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. He puts both of the bottles into his basket and proceeds to step away from the shelf. He turns to look at Crowley, as if waiting for him, but it takes quite a bit for Crowley to realize it.

“Oh! Oh. I’ll just- yeah.”

Crowley grabs a bottle of his own and then cradles it to his chest. It’s in that moment that realizes his basket is still behind the crisps stand and there’s no going back now. What could he possibly do? _Oh, angel, I was spying on you just ten minutes ago and I left my basket there- be right back!_ Yeah, no, that’s out. So he just holds the bottle in his arms and smiles casually until Aziraphale deems him ready to go. He turns away and Crowley follows after him- why? He’s not entirely sure, it’s not like either of them decided to go together and yet there he is. Like a magnet.

“I like the skirt,” Crowley speaks up eventually.

“Oh, do you?” Aziraphale beams at him, “It _is_ one of my favorites, yes,” he does a little spin as he walks, seemingly unbothered by the people around them. Crowley can only respond in a series of consonants that are vaguely reminiscent of words, his eyes trailing from the folds of the skirt and up to Aziraphale’s cheerful face. Oh, that smile- that smile shouldn’t be legal.

“Are you going anywhere after this, dear?” Aziraphale pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Just home- y’know, gonna have a glass of wine, edit some photos. Nothing too exciting,” he laughs, trying not to let it sound too self-conscious. It’s not that he doesn’t like the quiet nights in- it’s not like he’s ashamed of them, either. But he knows how people read him, usually, how he comes across as this cool guy, a party animal, even at his age. It still feels strange to admit he’s not exactly that.

“Sounds nice,” Aziraphale says gently and he’s so genuine it hurts, almost as if he can sense Crowley’s hesitance. “Lift home?”

Crowley opens his mouth and then closes it, then opens it again. “I- ‘s not that far, angel.”

“Oh, but it’s really not an issue. At all. Please, let me take you.”

He stops walking and regards Crowley with such a warm look that he truly finds it difficult to even think about saying no. He sighs softly and nods. “Sure. If you want, sure.”

And if the way Aziraphale brightens up makes his heart beat faster, he ignores it.

They head straight to the self checkouts now, chatting idly about their day and work and _dear boy, you should dress better for this weather!_ Crowley isn’t much for small talk, not usually, but with Aziraphale he once again finds himself falling into the strange rhythm of familiarity. They orbit around one another as Crowley helps Aziraphale scan his groceries and truly, to an outsider they must look like two stars made of the same light. Crowley’s not sure if he’s ever felt like this before.

It’s not long before they’re out of the store. They make their way towards Aziraphale’s car7. There’s a bit of back and forth as they wrestle the bags into the trunk- it’s so domestic that Crowley has to repeatedly remind himself that they barely know each other, that he can’t just take his hand or kiss his cheek whenever he pleases. It’s a bucket of cold water dumped onto his head whenever he tells himself that. Despite that, he still hurries to open Aziraphale’s door for him and smiles when he blushes at the gesture. He settles himself in the passenger seat and then they’re on their way to his flat. The ride is not much different from the first time they shared a space like this except for, well, just how short it is. It’s silly, really, that Aziraphale offered to drive him that short distance, but Crowley refuses to feel bad about it - he had insisted, after all, and if anything the drive has given him an excuse to spend just a little longer looking at and listening to Aziraphale. Eventually, they make it to his building.

This time, as it turns out, saying goodbye is far less awkward. Crowley jumps out of the seat and then sways, off-balance till he leans on the side of the car. He reaches in to grab his bottle of wine.

“Well, ‘s been a fun drive, angel,” he grins at him, waving with the bottle.

“Quite right. Seems like it may be a recurring thing, now-”

“An _arrangement_ , even?” Crowley drawls, teasing, “I help you choose wines, you drive me home? I like the sound of it.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling and Crowley can tell he’s amused. “Perhaps. In any case, you have my number, dear boy. If you ever need a lift again. Or-” he starts, but then trails off and never finishes the sentence. Crowley quirks a curious brow, but doesn’t ask. “Well. Right. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

Crowley nods once in response and steps away. “Yeah. See ya, angel.”

The car’s engine roars to life and as Aziraphale drives away, Crowley’s hit with a sudden realization.

All of his grocery shopping is still at the Tesco. In the basket. Behind the blasted crisps stand.

...delivery it is, then.

* * *

**ajcrowley** _Today at 19:34_

_hey angel hope u got home safe_

**the angel** _Today at 19:35_

_Crowley, is that you?_

**ajcrowley** _Today at 19:35_

_yeah anthony j crowley at ur service. so u home already then?_

**the angel** _Today at 19:37_

_Indeed, yes! And I’m quite well, thank you for asking. I assume you’ve had a successful trip from my car to your flat, too, dear?_

**ajcrowley** _Today at 19:37_

_haha yeah angel sure got home in one piece, you wouldnt even believe it. my wine made it too_

_hey can i say smth stupid_

**the angel** _Today at 19:37_

_Of course, dear. Say whatever you want to say._

**ajcrowley** _Today at 19:38_

_oi!! not even gonna try to reassure me its not gonna be stupid huh?_

**the angel** _Today at 19:38_

_Well I don’t know what you’re going to say, do I?_

**ajcrowley** _Today at 19:38_

_bastard >:(_

**the angel** _Today at 19:39_

_Really, dear, must you be so rude?_

**ajcrowley** _Today at 19:39_

_me? rude??? you havent seen the worst of me yet angel_

**the angel** _Today at 19:40_

_I'm quite certain you called yourself a menace today so I'd wager a guess that yes, I have._

**ajcrowley** _Today at 19:41_

_oh and now youre gonna call me out like this too_

_oh lord heal my broken heart, an angel went and shattered it_

**the angel** _Today at 19:42_

_Awfully dramatic of you to say. Have you ever considered becoming an actor?_

**ajcrowley** _Today at 19:42_

_when i was a kid, yeah, actually. never quite worked out though_

**the angel** _Today at 19:42_

_Maybe you should give it another try, then._

_So what did you want to tell me?_

**ajcrowley** _Today at 19:43_

_what?_

_ah. that. nevermind, its nothing angel_

_u know actually i have to go now. got stuff to do. important stuff_

**the angel** _Today at 19:44_

_Of course, I would hate to distract you. Have a good night, dear._

**ajcrowley** _Today at 19:44_

_thanks. night, angel_

Crowley lets the screen of his phone go black. He’s just chickened out, right there, but he couldn’t have- well, he could have, he supposes. He could have gone and said how much he enjoys their time together (as short as it’s been, so far). But is it a good idea? No. Not at all and he knows it all too well. Better to leave it unsaid, to stomp on any flowering feelings before it’s too late.

Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself that night.

5 \- The acronym stands for Trans, Non-Binary, and Queer Association. Crowley and Anathema spend far too much time bickering over the pronunciation of that name. The most common one, though, is Tinboq.

6 \- And, well, at protests it also gives him an excuse to shove himself right into the cops’ faces. He has credentials, after all, so he doesn’t have to run quite as fast as he would have to otherwise.

7 \- Crowley's carrying one of Aziraphale’s bags as he refuses to walk almost empty handed.


	3. Fell's Vehicles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he makes his way around the garage - oh, this shouldn’t be here and, oh dear, how have I misplaced this screwdriver - he’s struck by a sudden thought: He’s going to miss this place. Times haven’t been easy for Fell’s Vehicles and he… Aziraphale’s not stupid. He can be absentminded often enough, but he’s not stupid, thank you very much. And he knows he can’t keep the garage afloat for much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, this time we're switching into Aziraphale POV for the first time in this fic! As usual, huge thanks to Linden (under_a_linden_tree) for beta-ing and putting up with my writing bullshit (turns out, no, I can't say that Crowley has a flock of hair - how surprising). Hope you enjoy this one!

Aziraphale wakes up early in the morning. Or, rather, it’s not so much that he wakes up - it’s that he’s been awake for quite a while now, a book perched on his chest while his eyes idly roam the ceiling. Yet another sleepless night, though he’s grown rather accustomed to it - he’s had to, after all. His alarm clock goes off and he blinks, turning his head to look over at it, still bleary, thoughts muddled after how he’s allowed them to drift freely for the past hour or so. He lets out a long breath and then shifts, reaching out to turn off the buzzing sound, catching the book with one hand as it tumbles off his chest. He puts it gently on the nightstand.

The morning feels very much like any other one. He gets up. He stretches - just a little. He’s not much for exercise, in general, but he finds the motions soothing. It’s become a ritual, of sorts, to stretch a bit before going about his day. He gets dressed and then he settles at the kitchen table with a proper breakfast. It's also when he glances at his phone and a gentle smile spreads across his face at the sight of a new message from Crowley. They've been texting for several days now, ever since they ran into each other at the supermarket.

It’s… lovely, really, the way they can talk to each other. Crowley is easy-going and yet easily flustered. Aziraphale can see right through him - Crowley tries to play up how cool and suave he is, usually, but it’s quite obvious he’s got a big heart. He also can’t take compliments well, which is just downright adorable. In general, Aziraphale tends to stay away from people. He’s got a few close friends and that, along with the many books he owns and the cars he works on, is all he needs in life. He doesn’t date - he doesn’t even flirt. But it’s easy to fall into this playful dynamic with Crowley who responds to it so well and who knows when and how to push back. It feels natural to bicker with him as if they’re old friends. Aziraphale finds himself looking forward to every text and to their next meeting8.

Aziraphale taps out a quick response to the last message - Crowley has sent him a good morning text (that, in itself, is more than enough to make the butterflies flutter in Aziraphale’s stomach) and then proceeded to grumble and whine about how early it is (something work-related, apparently. Aziraphale already knows Crowley wouldn’t wake up at this hour if it was up to him). He looks at the screen for a moment longer and then, still with a smile, digs into his breakfast. He’s got a long day ahead of him - plenty of repairs and then, in the evening, Crowley will be there. Aziraphale should _not_ be as excited about it as he is, Crowley’s just another of the many clients of his small repair shop - or, in any case, he _should be_ just a client.

Aziraphale is the sole owner of Fell’s Vehicles. He never really planned to wind up with a car garage, but when he inherited the place, he didn’t have the heart to sell it. He had to learn quickly and with many hours and days and months of practice he eventually not only got good at it, but has also grown to genuinely enjoy the work. He’s learned how to listen to a car and to appreciate the ways in which it responds. Just as his morning stretches, the manual labor has become a ritual of sorts to him. It’s both methodical and messy at times and Aziraphale… Aziraphale can’t imagine his life without it, now. Years ago, when he was young - perhaps in his late teens - he thought he’d dedicate his whole life to books - as a librarian or maybe a writer (that was a dream he dared to entertain only on the best of days) or, hell, even a bookshop owner. A car garage was never a part of his future, but, just as he’d always thought, the Universe does work in mysterious ways. Mind you, he’s never lost his love for books - it’s just that his career has ended up in an entirely different place that he had originally planned. He’s happy, though, with how things have turned out. He really is.

Aziraphale lives above the garage. It allows him to spend many sleepless nights not just reading, but also working, taking machinery apart and then putting it back together, like a complicated puzzle. Once he’s done with his breakfast, he makes his way down to the garage and begins the day by puttering around, moving things about, preparing the place for the day. No one else has arrived yet so it’s just him and the equipment and soft classical music that he put on in the background.

As he makes his way around the garage - _oh, this shouldn’t be here and, oh dear, how have I misplaced this screwdriver_ \- he’s struck by a sudden thought: He’s going to miss this place. Times haven’t been easy for Fell’s Vehicles and he… Aziraphale’s not stupid. He can be absentminded often enough, but he’s not stupid, thank you very much. And he knows he can’t keep the garage afloat for much longer. He wishes he could and he’s tried and spent many nights thinking of ways to pay for all the expenses, but he’s just one person with a small team and as it is, he just can’t afford to keep the place running much longer, plain and simple. He lets out a long breath as his eyes scan all over the interior of his beloved workshop.

“Good morning, dearie!”

Aziraphale startles out of his thoughts. He turns around and smiles warmly as soon as he sees Tracy making her way into the garage.

“Good morning, dear lady,” he greets her. He doesn’t shy away from her as she comes trotting over to him and presses a loud kiss to his forehead. She’s one of the few people he’ll allow to initiate these kinds of affections. She is a lovely woman and Aziraphale wouldn’t trade her for the world.

“You look so tense, love, you need to stop worrying your pretty head so much,” she ruffles his hair as she walks past him and sets her bag on one of the work tables. “You should really rethink that massage I offered you last week.”

Aziraphale sighs softly and shakes his head, “I appreciate the thought, but there’s really no need,” he protests weakly.

“Well, whatever you say, Aziraphale. The offer is always there.”

He breathes out slowly and lets his smile fade away now that Tracy isn’t looking at him. Instead, she’s busy moving things around and preparing herself for the day of taking calls and dealing with customers. She’s talking and Aziraphale doesn’t have the heart to ignore her, but… his thoughts just drift away on their own. Tracy’s right, after all, he’s tense and he’s well aware of it. Lately, the garage and its future is all he can think about, really. What chances does he have, a genderqueer mechanic with barely any savings of his own, at saving the place? Almost none, according to his calculations. And what will he even do, once he loses the place? At this point, he doesn’t know much else than this, other than the cars and their parts and the oil on his hands, rough from years of work. Where will he go? Who will want to deal with his silly wishes and dreams and his fussy habits if he fails at this?

“Aziraphale,” Tracy’s gentle voice is suddenly right next to him. There’s a hand on his shoulder and that’s when Aziraphale realizes that he’s been standing there, motionless, for the past few minutes. He’s gripping the edge of a steel shelf, his knuckles white. His breathing is quickened and he blinks at her. “Aziraphale, dahling,” her accent is thick and familiar and Aziraphale latches onto it desperately amidst his own racing thoughts. “Take a breath.”

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut and nods, listening to Tracy’s own breathing. She doesn’t leave his side, not until he manages to get himself under control, his fingers slowly letting go of the shelf.

“Thank you,” he murmurs once he can think and breathe a bit more clearly. He opens his eyes and looks towards her, but has to look away almost immediately, the worry etched her face far too much for him to take. “I- ah. I do apologize. I don’t know what came over me…”

“I think you do know, love,” she murmurs, her voice warm and caring and not even a hint of accusation or annoyance in it. Oh, Aziraphale can’t handle it sometimes, just how gentle and patient she is with him. Sometimes, more so than his own mother was when he was just a young boy. “Come, let’s get you seated down.”

He allows her to lead him to one of the chairs and lowers himself into it heavily. He rubs a hand on his chin, still just a tad off balance, still a bit shaken up. He hadn’t exactly prepared himself for the sudden panic (Not that he could’ve. Aziraphale sometimes wishes he could schedule his panic attacks the same way he can schedule the rest of his life).

“I’ll make you a cup of tea, yes? Tea and biscuits. Just stay here, don’t even _think_ about anything.”

It’s clear she won’t take no for an answer and so he just smiles tiredly at her and nods, letting her leave him alone for just a moment, long enough for her to prepare the tea and find the biscuits stashed in the back of the garage for such emergencies.

She returns soon enough that Aziraphale doesn’t quite have the time to spiral down into his own mind. He’s been trying to ground himself in her absence - looking around the shop and letting his mind jump from object to object. He tries to describe them, too, a poor imitation of what he had learned ages ago when he was still going to therapy regularly.

This time, he’s not startled as Tracy comes into his field of vision once more. She offers him his mug9 and sits down next to him, setting the biscuit tin on the counter in front of them. She opens it up, but Aziraphale’s the first one to reach for a sweet treat. For a moment they both sip their teas and nibble on their biscuits in silence.

“You’ve been thinking about the garage again, haven’t you?” she speaks, eventually, her usual gentleness mixed in with the bluntness. Aziraphale appreciates that about her - she’s loving and caring, but she’s also always been straightforward and honest. He needs that, he thinks, to not be coddled too much and not be allowed to wallow in his own misery.

“Yes,” he sighs, “I… I’ve been thinking about it a lot, admittedly,” he stares down into his tea as he speaks, the dark liquid reflecting his tired eyes back at him.

“Of course you have. You love this place a lot,” she smiles knowingly at him and Aziraphale can’t help but smile as well, if only for a short time.

“Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be enough to afford to keep it,” he points out bitterly.

She chuckles and nudges the tin towards him, prompting him to take another biscuit. He happily continues to eat through his anxiety. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I think love can make great things happen, sweetie.”

“I appreciate your confidence, I do, but I’m quite certain my life isn’t a romance novel, dear lady,” Aziraphale says, deadpan at first until he huffs out a quiet laugh. “I do know what you mean, though. I think.”

Tracy smiles at him - one of those small, private and mysterious smiles. One of those that Aziraphale is quite sure are trying to tell him a lot, but he can’t quite decipher all of Tracy’s many mysteries. Unable to figure out her expression, he reaches into the tin for another biscuit, but finds it to be empty already. He places his hand on the counter instead and Tracy covers it with her own, her fingers gently caressing his knuckles.

“I hope you know I’m being completely serious, Aziraphale,” she murmurs, leaning in closer to him. “You may not realize it yet, but… I think love _will_ help you. You and the garage, of course. And if it doesn’t, well…” she leans back, her smile widening, “You know me, dahling. I wouldn’t let this place go so easily, either. So you can count on me to kick and scream-” she winks at him, “-as long as it’s needed for you to stay here.”

Aziraphale’s face softens considerably and he leans in to pull her into a hug. “Oh- oh, thank you,” he breathes into her shoulder. “I appreciate you so much, Tracy. I don’t think I tell you that often enough.”

“You better start saying it more, then, you ridiculous boy,” she chuckles, squeezing him tightly before he lets her go. “Well! We better get a move on, now, yes? Wouldn’t want to be caught dilly-dallying!” she pinches his cheek as she pulls back. Aziraphale makes a face, but then he’s laughing, in a considerably better mood than earlier this morning.

They put their mugs away and clean up the crumbs and the entire time Azirahale’s light on his feet. With some of his worries eased, his stomach once again bubbles with excitement as he thinks about the rest of the day, about Crowley and his beautiful car that stands in the side of the garage, all in perfect condition now and just awaiting his owner. It’ll be a good day, Aziraphale thinks. He’ll make sure it’s good.

* * *

It’s dark outside - five in the evening, maybe, or six, Aziraphale isn’t quite sure10, when Crowley shows up. Currently, Aziraphale is bent over the hood of one of the cars, taking his time with the bits and pieces of it - it’s not an urgent job nor a complicated one and so he doesn’t have to rush. He’s just straightened up and is wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand when he notices familiar red locks. Below them, there’s a dark shirt, unbuttoned at the top, as well as a crimson suit jacket. Crowley’s also wearing a skirt which cuts off at around the height of his knobbly knees and is a similar shade to his jacket. The outfit is topped off by a pair of black thick leggings and heavy combat boots. At the sight of him, Aziraphale’s heart immediately does two backflips, one after another and he sways on his feet. Oh goodness. What a strange feeling.

“Oh, Crowley, you’re here!” he greets him. He can’t keep the happiness out of his voice. He’s quite certain he couldn’t hide it even if he tried to.

“Hello, angel,” Crowley drawls as he saunters over to him. It’s fascinating, watching Crowley move, the way his long limbs are so fluid and yet stuttery at once as if Crowley was made for something bigger than his own lanky body. “Did you think I wouldn’t show up?” he raises his eyebrows over the top of his sunglasses.

“No, dear, of course I didn’t think so. I just got caught up in work and-” Aziraphale stops talking when, to his surprise, the pad of Crowley’s thumb is suddenly swiping across his forehead. It’s a quick gesture, not more than a couple of seconds of contact and yet it still leaves Aziraphale wide-eyed and gaping. He follows the movement of Crowley’s hand with his eyes and when his gaze flickers over to his face, he realizes Crowley is just as surprised as he is.

“You- um,” Crowley stammers. He seems to be looking at his own thumb, squinting, though it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, his expression unreadable. “You had something on- your… er. Sorry. That was-”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says before Crowley has a chance to work himself up too much over it. He smiles as well, causing a blush to blossom all over the redhead’s cheeks. He stammers out a few more letters before giving up and shrugging as he swipes his thumb on his skirt. It’s clear he’s trying to seem casual as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and twists his head to make it a point that he’s looking around.

“So,” he clears his throat and raises his eyebrows, “Where’s my girl at, angel? You better not be hiding her from me.”

Aziraphale chuckles in response and shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear, I wouldn’t do that. I think she’s missed you quite a bit, in fact.” It doesn’t escape him how Crowley’s expression softens. He’s very expressive, even with the dark lenses in the way, and it’s charming to watch him emote. “Come along,” Aziraphale adds and waves at Crowley to follow him to the other part of the garage.

Aziraphale doesn’t have to look behind him to know that Crowley’s following him. It’s like back when they ran into each other at the supermarket - when Crowley had followed him even though Aziraphale had never explicitly told him to. Aziraphale knows he shouldn’t be looking into it too much - that it probably doesn’t mean much, that Crowley’s just being friendly. And yet… well, he can’t quite help the warm feeling blossoming in his chest. Perhaps, Crowley would follow him anywhere he wanted to go.

“And there she is. All taken care of, of course,” he says as they approach the Bentley.

At the sight of his car, Crowley lights up almost immediately. He hurriedly walks up to her and starts circling around, bent over and peering close at every bit of her. It’s a little silly, Aziraphale thinks, as there was no physical damage to be fixed (nothing that’d be visible on her exterior anyway), but he can understand the need to check up on her, especially when she’s clearly so loved by Crowley. It reminds him a bit of his own inspection and the picture that Crowley has taken of him, the one that he’s later received as well. Bent over, with a hand on the bonnet of the car, leaning in close and laughing at something he said… there’s one significant difference though - and it’s just how much Crowley coos and blabbers on now that he’s reunited with her.

“Oh, yes, you’re looking good, aren’t you? I know, I didn’t want to leave you for so long either. Not a scratch, huh? Better not be any...”

It’s as if Crowley isn’t even aware that Aziraphale’s still watching and listening. He barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, but a smirk does make its way onto his face. He lets Crowley have his moment for just a minute or two longer before he finally interrupts, amusement written all over his face.

“Happy to see her, then?”

Well, now it truly seems like Crowley has forgotten about the existence of anything other than him and his car. His foot slips up and he nearly falls over - he only regains his balance by grasping at the side of the Bentley and swaying on his feet a bit.

“Bugger- angel!” he cries and- oh Lord. Is he pouting at him? It certainly looks like he’s pouting. Well. “I’m having a moment here, you know!”

Aziraphale’s smile widens, “Yes, I can certainly see that.” Crowley must be his age, Aziraphale’s sure of it, so it’s terribly unfair that the childish pout suits him so well and somehow makes his handsome face even prettier. It also makes Aziraphale want to kiss him. Terribly unfair indeed. “Are you quite finished, then? With your… moment? Not that I want to rush you, of course, I would simply rather you didn’t fall over and hurt yourself, dear.”

“Ngk- hmph-” Crowley flusters and huffs, “Yes, angel, I’m finished. Oh, stop laughing at me, would you? This is serious! I haven’t seen her in- in days! We’ve never been apart so long!”

Aziraphale coos, “Oh, poor you.” He comes closer to him, Crowley’s expression relaxing as he does. He seems to be regaining some of his composure. “Well, as I said earlier, she should be all good to go, now. Fortunately enough it wasn’t too complex of an issue and you two would have been reunited much earlier if we didn’t have to wait for the parts to come in. She’s… quite a vintage, after all,” Aziraphale explains, looking over at the Bentley. He runs a hand over her roof, his mischievous smirk turning into something much gentler.

“Yeah, she is. And not just beautiful, but tough, too,” Crowley proudly pats her side. “My pride and joy!” he finishes and now both his tone and smile are more teasing, but it’s clear he does still mean it, in a way. Aziraphale nods in understanding.

“Well, I hope she’ll be with you for many more years, dear.”

Crowley hums and turns his head to look at her for a moment. He licks his lips as though he’s thinking about something. Aziraphale falls silent, letting him sort through his own thoughts. He leans against the side of the Bentley’s bonnet and lets his eyes freely roam all over Crowley’s form.

“I… need to ask you something, angel,” Crowley finally says.

“Yes, dear boy?”

Crowley pauses and visibly hesitates. He doesn’t even look nervous, not to Aziraphale, but it’s quite clear he’s trying to figure out his own words.

“So, there’s this- thing- well. Okay. It’s a calendar,” he begins, then stops and sighs heavily before giving it another try, “No, okay, let me just- ugh- let me just start from the top. I work for- with- I work with this organization and we- actually, you must’ve heard of it, bloody _Newt_ works for you, doesn’t he!”

Aziraphale perks up at the familiar name, head tilted in curiosity. “Newton Pulsifer? Yes, he does work here- you know him?”

“Yeah, of course I know him. TNBQA rings any bells?”

“Oh yes, it does! Isn’t that the organization the dear boy’s girlfriend started? Anathema?”

Crowley nods eagerly. “Yup,” he pops the p loudly and shuffles his feet so that he can lean more comfortably against his car, “and she’s a close friend so I’m usually helping them out with stuff. Photography, mainly, cause- yanno,” he waves his arm.

“Yes, makes sense, dear,” Aziraphale gives him an encouraging smile, “So, you mentioned a calendar?”

Crowley hums his assent, “Yeah,” he confirms, “We’re doing this charity thing, basically. It’s gonna be a calendar, the profits are gonna go to queer businesses and such. And… well, I need to photograph people for it… particularly queer business owners…” he trails off and pointedly raises his eyebrows, as if expecting some sort of a reaction.

Aziraphale blinks at him and it takes a bit before all the pieces click properly in his head. “Oh? Oh!” he stands a bit more straight, “Are you- oh goodness. Are you asking to… oh, Crowley, really?”

“Well, I mean. You fit the bill perfectly, right? Unless I- but- I mean- um-”

“Oh, no no, I mean, yes, dear, you’re right, I do consider myself queer, yes, and I do own this place-” _for now_ , a small voice at the back of his head prompts, but he hurriedly shushes it, “So, yes, dear, Lord, I would be honored…”

The corners of Crowley’s lips tug upwards while his shoulders slouch downwards, the lines of his body relaxing. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “I mean… queer, owns a business and- well- you’re gorgeous as well, so… would be my pleasure,” the end of the sentence is practically mumbled, but still clear enough for Aziraphale to hear every word. Crowley tips his head downward, embarrassed.

The compliment is so sudden that Aziraphale’s hands flutter, up and then down, until he can twist and press at his own fingers as he clasps them in front of himself. “Crowley…” he mutters. He’s certain his own cheeks are dusted pink just as much as Crowley’s are.

“Mhm?” Crowley’s still avoiding his gaze and Aziraphale can only smile at how flustered he gets after his own attempts at gentle flirty jabs. “What’s up, angel?”

“You’re a sweetheart- oh, don’t you dare protest, you ridiculous thing. You are. And, as I said, that’s a yes. I think it’ll be rather lovely… I’ve never had a proper photo session like that, do you know?”

“Never?” Crowley perks up and oh, as much as Aziraphale loves seeing him flustered and shy, he does so enjoy it when he relaxes like this and when his interest just shines through. He’s fairly sure his eyes must be sparkling behind those sunglasses. “C’mon, angel, you’re pulling my leg. I don’t believe that. You? Never? Not even in one of those skirts of yours?”

“I’m serious! I don’t run into photographers every day, dear. Not to mention you can’t deny that people of my… body type aren’t generally considered the most aesthetically appealing. _Especially_ if they happen not to be cis as well.”

Crowley makes a face at that and shrugs. “Yeah, well. People are stupid. Got no taste. Should’ve had lots of photoshoots already, if you ask me. Nude, clothed, all kinds. Lots, I say.”

“Then I’m rather lucky that I’ve met you, aren’t I?” Aziraphale lowers his voice and leans in, a small smile still playing in the corners of his mouth.

“Um,” Crowley hesitates, “Yeah, I- I suppose so. Yeah. Sure hope I live up to the expectations, then,” the laugh that he lets out is short and awkward and Aziraphale’s heart aches at the sound of it. Oh, dear Lord, how can Crowley be so insecure?

“You’ve already exceeded them, dear,” he says softly and then pulls away. Best not to push if he doesn’t want to completely overwhelm the poor dear.

Crowley pushes himself away from the car and sways on his feet. He says nothing in response to Aziraphale’s words - in fact, it looks as though he’s doing his best to hide any kind of reaction to them. Aziraphale’s watching carefully for it, but after a few moments of silence he decides to move on from the conversation, at least for now.

“Well, I believe we’ve already talked about all the payments the other day, yes?” he knows for a fact they did, but he also knows Crowley must be hoping for him to change the subject. He waits until he gets a nod in confirmation before he continues, “In that case, we’re all settled and you can take your Bentley home.”

He smooths a hand over the bonnet once more before he steps away from the car and hands Crowley his keys. Their fingers brush, just barely, and Crowley squawks out a soft thanks and then grips the keys so tightly that his knuckles start to go white. They look at each other for a moment before Crowley turns away to unlock the Bentley.

“Um. So,” he speaks while pulling the door open, “I guess I will… you know. Text you? About the- the calendar, I mean.”

“Please do,” Aziraphale responds, “I’ll be looking forward to it. And mind how you go!”

Crowley huffs a gentle laugh, “Yeah, angel. I’ll text you when I’m home.”

He gets settled in the seat and smiles when Aziraphale gives him a small wave. He doesn’t drive away immediately - first, he seems to be inspecting the dashboard and the seats, but once he’s satisfied with the state of his car, he pats the wheel and then the engine roars to life properly as he drives out of the garage. Aziraphale watches him go, hands clasped at his stomach, a fluttery, bright feeling underneath his skin.

In another universe, perhaps, Aziraphale would try to lie to himself and say that he doesn’t spend the next half an hour impatiently awaiting a text. In this one, though, he’s painfully aware of how he pulls his phone out every five or so minutes and waits and hopes to see the familiar name on it. It’s a good way to end the day, he thinks, with Crowley’s flushed face and his smile still fresh in his memory. He hopes- no, he _knows_ he’ll see him again soon and he’s already genuinely looking forward to it. Maybe… perhaps it’s about time to take another step in their developing friendship. What was it that Tracy had said? Ah, yes. Love can make great things happen.

(And isn’t that quite something - putting Crowley’s name and love so close to each other in his mind already?)

8 \- Fortunately they're scheduled to see each other that same day, when Crowley comes to pick up his Bentley.

9 \- It's a white mug with wings instead of proper handles. Aziraphale has at least ten of those, though he refuses to tell anyone the exact number.

10 \- Aziraphale loses track of time easily, especially when he's working. With the outside world tuned out, he can spend hours on end working without any breaks.


	4. Changing Gears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, at the moment, what bothers him happens to be…
> 
> “He’s just- he’s so- he’s so pretty and- fuck, did I really tell him that he should have a nude photoshoot?"
> 
> It happens to be Aziraphale, as Crowley replays their last interactions over and over again in his head. The two of them have been getting along well and, so far, Aziraphale hasn’t seemed too… he’s seemed to be genuinely enjoying Crowley’s company. Somehow, that’s bloody terrifying - even more so when it allows Crowley to run his mouth like a dumbass, such as when he had asked Aziraphale to pose for the calendar pictures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Saturday which means a new chapter! Writing this one has kinda been like pulling teeth, but the result is... surprisingly alright? As always, thanks to Linden (under_a_linden_tree) for beta-ing and this time, the chapter includes a terrible car story courtesy of mehrto!
> 
> UPDATE: The chapter now includes art by me!

Crowley’s flat overflows with luscious greenery. From the floor to the ceiling, plants fill out nearly every nook and cranny - especially in his living room, where each little spot is prepared specifically for different kinds of plants, with lamps meticulously hung over the most sun starved ones and shade created for the ones that prefer the dark. They’re all luxurious plants and well taken care of, too. Altogether, the greenery makes it a welcoming space, even amidst the sharp corners and grey walls. That is, of course, if there’s no one stalking back and forth through the room, pacing in circles and shaking a plant mister in frustration.

“Fuck. Fuck! What was I thinking!”

Technically, it shouldn’t be possible for plants to be afraid. They’re just plants, after all, and as alive as they may be, they don’t usually show fear. And yet, as Crowley does another circle around the flat, it looks as though all the leaves and flowers quake in fear.

“You!” he stops suddenly and turns towards one of the monsteras. He shakes the mister at it and squints. “You… what, got nothing to tell me? You and your damned spots… You better not get them again.”

He sprays the plant once and then, with a wide sweep of his arm, continues his anxiety-ridden walk.

This isn’t much of an unusual sight in Crowley’s household. He’s taken to talking and yelling at his plants a while ago, a way to rid himself of excess energy and to talk through whatever’s bothering him, without resorting to punching anything. And, at the moment, what bothers him happens to be…

“He’s just- he’s so- he’s so _pretty_ and- fuck, did I really tell him that he should have a _nude photoshoot_?"

It happens to be Aziraphale, as Crowley replays their last interactions over and over again in his head. The two of them have been getting along well and, so far, Aziraphale hasn’t seemed too… he’s seemed to be genuinely enjoying Crowley’s company. Somehow, that’s bloody terrifying - even more so when it allows Crowley to run his mouth like a dumbass, such as when he had asked Aziraphale to pose for the calendar pictures.

He groans, spraying another plant with as much anger as he can muster11. He’s supposed to be meeting Aziraphale today for the photoshoot and he hasn’t been able to stay still ever since he woke up this morning - in fact, he hasn’t been able to sleep well either, tossing and turning in his bed, thinking up all the worst scenarios.

He’s not sure why this is getting to him so much - he’s a bloody professional (or he tries to be, anyway) and this is just a photoshoot, whatever’s going on between the two of them shouldn’t influence it, should it? Yeah, except nothing is ever that simple and Crowley’s crush has only gotten worse the more he’s talked to Aziraphale.

With a sigh, he lowers the mister and reaches out to run his fingers over the leaves, his thumb brushing right over one of the spots. “Yeah, I know,” he mutters, as if the plant could respond to him. “Either he likes me or he doesn’t. Worst case scenario- worst case scenario I just… worst case scenario, nothing changes.”

With a frown, he lets go of the plant. Something in him still itches to kick and scream and punch (old habits die hard), but he’s really trying not to let it consume him. He tosses the mister to the floor and stomps out of the room, shaking his head to himself. He needs to get himself together.

* * *

Deep breaths, Crowley. Deep breaths.

He’s standing by the Bentley’s side, in front of Aziraphale’s place and his garage. It’s pretty late, by now, and so the car shop is closed up for the day. Aziraphale had told him earlier to come up to the side door instead - they’re supposed to be taking the pictures inside of the garage itself, but he’d much rather let Crowley in through the side than open the garage door. And so, that’s how Crowley finds himself at Aziraphale’s doorstep, bag of equipment on his shoulder. _It’s gonna be fine_ , he has to tell himself again as he rings the doorbell

He hears some rustling on the other side, footsteps and then a sound of the door being unlocked. He leans against the side of the building, attempting to look casual for when Aziraphale shows up in the doorway - except that all goes out the window as soon as Crowley gets a good look at him.

Aziraphale’s wearing a dressing gown and, unfortunately for Crowley’s poor heart, it appears that he’s not wearing anything else underneath it. It’s a nice gown, too, golden silk with tartan cuffs. It reaches down to his calves and it’s tied at his stomach, allowing most of his chest to peak out above the midsection. Crowley, once again, finds that he’s truly thankful for his sunglasses as they allow him to rake his eyes all over Aziraphale’s body and take in the whole sight of him.

“I- er- um. Hi.”

“Hello, dear!” And while Crowley can’t even get one word out, Aziraphale seems completely unaffected and oblivious to his internal struggle. He steps out of the way, allowing Crowley into the house. “Do come in, dear. It’s wonderful to see you.” he continues, all chipper even while Crowley’s brain is still blue screening.

“Ngh- yeah, you- you too…”

“Come along. I made tea and brought out biscuits, too, in case you were feeling peckish- or, well, I may be feeling peckish as well. It’s all in the garage already, come on, dear.”

In a way, Crowley’s glad Aziraphale isn’t waiting for him to respond - after all, his tongue is all in knots now, metaphorical smoke coming out his ears as he desperately tries to comprehend the image in front of him. Why is Aziraphale not dressed? It’s not like Crowley’s shown up earlier than expected - they had talked through the photoshoot beforehand, too, they _had_ agreed that they’d start as early as possible so it’d be best if Aziraphale was prepared by the time Crowley arrived…

They reach the garage and, just as Aziraphale had said, there’s a pot of tea and biscuits waiting for them on one of the many work tables. Aziraphales leads him further inside and stops to fiddle with his fingers as his gaze sweeps over the garage.

“I wasn’t quite sure where you’d like to take the pictures,” Aziraphale says, “So I tidied up a bit… enough so that there’s space to work with. Do let me know what you’re thinking, dear.”

Crowley occupies himself with setting up equipment. He’s desperately trying not to pay too much attention to that sliver of skin between the top of Aziraphale’s gown and his neck - he may be ace as hell, but that doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about what that skin would feel under his fingers, how he could press kisses all over it- of course, his attempts are entirely failed as his eyes and his mind both keep drifting.

“Yeah, er- I can take a look while you’re getting dressed?” he suggests, his eyes firmly lowered and focussed entirely on his tripod as he slowly unfolds it.

“Getting dressed?” Aziraphale repeats. The surprised tone of his voice gets Crowley to look up. Aziraphale squints at him in confusion. “Don’t be silly. Really, shouldn’t you get naked as well, dear? I’ve read about it once, you know, how this photographer took pictures of people while he himself was nude…12”

Aziraphale is teasing, Crowley can tell as much, but the rest of what he says just simply doesn’t make sense. Why would he be so surprised at the question?

“Um. Wait. Wait, Aziraphale, did you-” he licks his lips, struggling to find the right words, “I did tell you to pick what you wanna wear, didn’t I?”

“You did indeed, my dear, and you also mentioned a nude photoshoot…”

It clicks in Crowley’s head, finally, that what he’s been agonizing over ever since the last time they saw each other ( _“Should’ve had lots of photoshoots already, if you ask me. Nude, clothed, all kinds. Lots, I say.”_ ) is what Aziraphale actually took to heart. He’s not sure when the miscommunication happened exactly (he must’ve assumed Aziraphale would just… know that he needs to be dressed and so he never quite cleared it up), but it clearly happened and now, well, he’s at a loss.

“You thought… you thought I meant _a nude calendar_?”

“Well, I thought it’s _a possibility_. But-” Aziraphale shrugs and drops his gaze, “If you insist…”

As he says that, he tips his head down, bats his eyelashes and sticks out his bottom lip. It’s a near-perfect impression of a begging puppy (except far more smug) and Crowley sputters, unsure how to respond. Aziraphale’s expression is so pleading and he can’t just say no to him, but the round planes of Aziraphale’s skin weren’t a part of the plan (in fact, he’s quite certain Anathema intends to keep the calendar as safe for work as possible - and so even tasteful nudity is out).

“No!” Crowley protests hurriedly, unable to stand the look on Aziraphale’s face anymore. “I mean, yes! I mean- fuck. I can take pictures of you. Like this. If you really want. Wouldn’t go into the calendar, though, we’d have to schedule another photoshoot…”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale lights up in an instant. His eyes flicker up to Crowley and a happy smile appears on his face. “I think that’d be perfect, dear. I’m sure we can find another time that works for both of us.”

“Yeahhh,” Crowley squeaks, returning his attention to the tripod. He desperately needs to do something with his hands, even more so now that Aziraphale’s at him so openly, like the bastard ray of sunshine that he is. “I think, um-” he decides to speak again, “We could try a couple of places in the garage. See what works. Don’t have to worry about making it perfect, either, if it’s not for the calendar,” he muses. “Could you-” he straightens up, his eyes scan the surroundings, “Could you get something for yourself to sit on? A chair, a box- hell, a table, whatever works, really. Put it over there?” he gestures to a spot in front of the tripod.

Now that they’ve decided that he’s going to be taking pictures of Aziraphale in nothing but the dressing gown, it’s about time to actually get to work. He’s fortunate in that with time, the sight of Aziraphale in so little doesn’t fluster him as much (it’s a pleasant sight, nonetheless - but it’s simply not as startling anymore). Things go smooth, more so than Crowley had expected, when the initial shock begins to wear off. He sets his camera up while Aziraphale settles on a stool, with tools and cars as a backdrop. Crowley doesn’t even wait for him to start posing before he fires off the pictures, capturing Aziraphale’s laughter as he tries to get himself comfortable. _“Oh my, really, have you started taking pictures already?”_ Aziraphale pouts and Crowley’s only response is to snap even more of them - to capture the stuck out lip, the smile that follows and all the other of Aziraphale’s many expressions. That way, the next two hours pass in a blink of an eye till Crowley has far too many pictures to count and Aziraphale looks tired and yet pleased, nearly glowing with all the attention he’s gotten during the course of the photoshoot.

“Well, dear,” Aziraphale speaks as he slides off the stool while Crowley is looking over some of the pictures on his camera. Without looking up, he waves Aziraphale over, “I think this has been rather pleasant,” he continues as he steps close. Crowley can feel that he’s nearby, now, and turns the camera so that he doesn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder to see the photos.

“Yeah. I’m gonna take a better look at them once I’m home, pick out the ones that look good, edit them, the whole deal,” Crowley hums as he flicks through several of the shots. Aziraphale may not be a natural model and that’s especially clear in some of them (the ones where he’s trying to pose, anyway - in Crowley’s opinion, the ones where he’s just laughing, not thinking about the camera pointed at him, look… well, beautiful).

“You’re a darling,” Crowley hears Aziraphale say. He flusters and grumbles something in response, not quite looking at him as Aziraphale walks away and tugs the gown tighter around himself. “Are you busy right now?”

“Er-” he starts packing up the equipment as he considers the question, “Not really, no. Why?”

“I have a nice bottle of wine upstairs, perhaps you could stay for a glass or two?”

Crowley stares at him for a bit, eyes wide and questioning. Aziraphale meets his gaze and, for a brief moment, it looks as though he’s reconsidering his offer.

“Of course, it’s perfectly alright if you’d rather not…”

“No, no!” Crowley shakes his head. He flexes his fingers where they’re rested on his camera bag. “I mean. Yes? Uh- someone’s sake… I can stay. I would _like_ to stay,” he finally corrects himself. His face is burning and so he looks away. Aziraphale’s far too good at getting him flustered, it’s becoming ridiculous.

“Perfect!” Aziraphale clasps his hands together and smiles, “I’ll go get the wine, then. You’ve seen the hallway already, just go up the stairs and then I’m sure you can find the living room easily.”

Crowley doesn’t have much time to process all of the information before Aziraphale’s gone, presumably on his way to the upstairs flat. With the mechanic out of view, Crowley drops his face into his hands and groans loudly, allowing himself just this one small moment of emotional distress before he gathers himself once again. Well, at this point he can’t really back out of what he already agreed to - and so he grabs his bags and then heads upstairs.

* * *

“Okay, so- so- cars, right? Right-” Crowley leans forward and gestures with his hand. It’s a miracle none of the wine ends up on the carpet, “I had this car, once, angel- it was bloody awful, really. It was, um-” he drops his gaze and his eyes go all unfocused. He’s staring at his glass right when Aziraphale decides there’s not enough wine in it. As he reaches out to refill it, Crowley nearly jumps out of his skin, startled by the sudden splish and splash of the alcohol filling it up.

They’ve been drinking solidly for the past… well, it must’ve been an hour or two _at least_ , perhaps longer. Not like either of them is really keeping track of time at this point, far too engaged in the good wine and conversation to pay attention to anything else around them. Crowley is sprawled all over Aziraphale’s sofa, his sunglasses for once discarded, while Aziraphale himself is settled in an armchair across from him.

“Citroen!” Crowley exclaims, lifting his gaze. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him and takes a long sip out of his own glass as he waits for him to continue. “Citroen bloody Saxo- awful thing, lemme tell you, from- from 2000- and okay, so I had this car, right?”

There’s a pause there and Crowley’s mismatched eyes are piercing through Aziraphale as he waits for some sort of reaction. Aziraphale nods, as seriously as he can.

“And one time- one time, I was at work, back- back at this bloody office job, end of the day, I got out and what? Car doesn’t start!”

Aziraphale audibly gasps and Crowley can’t help the little flip of his heart, the smile that tugs at his lips. Watching Aziraphale while he’s tipsy should be a national sport, truly, he’s so vibrant and emotive and fuck Crowley needs more wine before he does something stupid like kiss his stupid pretty face.

“So I get out, yeah? I get out of the car and I go- go check all the things, the- the whatcha call ‘em- engine and shite- and guess what? No no don’t guess, I’ll tell you: no engine! ‘S just gone. Like a magic trick!”

“No!”

“Yup!”

Crowley takes a long sip of the wine. And if he’s doing it just to see that bright-eyed, curious look Aziraphale has on his face for just a while longer… well, no one has to know. He finally lowers his glass and shifts on the sofa, legs still spread out wide, but all angles of his body twisted towards Aziraphale, leaning towards him like a sunflower seeking its sun.

“So I go back inside, I get, um- Hastur, Ligur, they were there and I drag them outside and we’re all just- we’re all just- well they’re pissed first of all, but we’re all looking under the hood and flashing light in there and we- eleven minutes, for eleven minutes we were just looking in there, like- where is the engine? Where’s the bloody engine, couldn’t have just walked away, ‘s gotta be somewhere,” he shakes his head vigorously and sways from side to side, “-but nope, it’s just not there.”

“My dear, wouldn’t it be easier to just steal the whole car?”

“Oi!” Crowley sits up suddenly, waving his glass around, “Don’t you tell me that, angel! ‘S not me, I didn’t steal my own bloody engine, Hell knows who did- and shush. Shush, you,” he reaches out, with his free hand, nearly smacking Aziraphale with a finger that he points at his lips. “Shhh- that’s not all. There’s more, angel, I’m not done.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicker between Crowley’s face and his finger and for a moment it looks like he’s considering something. Crowley frowns at him, but then he’s moving back once again, pulling his hand away and Aziraphale breathes out softly. Crowley tries not to look at his flushed cheeks or his full lips or- Right. Right, he’s staring now and he should really get on with the talking instead.

“Er- ngk-” he stutters for a bit, “Ummm- so the car- that same night- that same night, they broke into it again! And, well, there was nothing left in it so- so what did they steal? They stole those- those wires that you, y’know, get for free to help you power up the car if the engine goes dead and- and some bloody bandages, I think, and- there was nothing left in the car, yet they persevered!”

Crowley’s dimly aware he’s been rambling, but he’s not sure he’d be able to stop even if he tried. Better to keep on talking than let himself drown in these pretty eyes, right? Those eyes that he’s fairly sure are staring at him now, and _why is Aziraphale looking at him like this_?

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale says slowly, each word laced with fond amusement, “Do you mean jump cables?”

Crowley can nearly hear the cogs of his own brain whirring before he realizes what Aziraphale’s referring to. He sputters. “Shit- yeah, bugger, I don’t speak English _or_ car.”

“Good lord. I do wish all this was simply a lost translation.”

Crowley opens his mouth and closes it, several times. Aziraphale is smiling at him now, the bastard, and Crowley huffs and puffs before breaking into a chuckle of his own.

“Sheesh, angel,” he drawls, slumping into the cushions, “Best burn I’ve ever received. Better call the fire department and bring out the extinguisher, please.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Aziraphale chuckles. Crowley can’t help but roll his eyes at him, especially as Aziraphale now leans in to refill his glass. Crowley moves forward as well, to try and give him better access to his own glass but then what happens instead is that his uncoordinated arm knocks into Aziraphale’s hand and with a splash the wine ends up on Aziraphale’s nice gown instead.

Fuck.

“Oh, goodness-”

“Fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean-” Crowley’s fumbling, waving his glass even more before he finally places it down on the table. He reaches to take a bottle out of Aziraphale’s grasp and puts it down gently and then he’s on his feet and at Aziraphale’s side in no time at all. “Sorry, I really- fuck, get up, lemme- I can clean it up…”

He’s not putting much thought into what he’s doing, now. His anxiety, ramped up even higher because of the alcohol, is guiding all of his movements and that’s how he winds up undressing Aziraphale, pulling the gown off him and leaving him in just his boxers (which Aziraphale has fortunately put on after they were finished with the photoshoot).

“Crowley, what are you-”

“I can clean it up,” Crowley repeats and he’s still moving, first in one direction before he realizes that no, that’s not where the kitchen is, then in another, nearly tripping over his own feet until he finally makes it to the sink (which, luckily, happens to be empty). He pushes the gown under the tap and pours water on it and then he’s scrubbing frantically - he should think it through better, should grab something that can actually clean off the stain, but he’s stuck in his own head now, too far gone. He’s fucked up and this shouldn’t- it shouldn’t- it shouldn’t be a big deal, but it somehow _is_.

“Crowley, please, it’s fine-” He jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder. When he turns, he sees that Aziraphale is now right next to him, looking at him with a frown on his face. “You’re not going to be able to clean it off with just hot water alone, dear. And in any case, I really don’t mind the stain, although it is terribly sweet of you to try and get it off.”

Crowley gapes at him, like a fish fresh out of water. Aziraphale is still naked (save for his boxers and the slippers on his feet) and, fortunately, that doesn’t freak Crowley out as much anymore (he’s had time, during the photoshoot, to get used to the look of Aziraphale’s body, to the pull he feels towards him, the way that he’d like to wrap his arms around him and pepper kisses across his skin), but the issue of the hand on his shoulder and the gown in the sink still remains. It leaves Crowley speechless, even as Aziraphale reaches over to turn off the water.

“I- um-” he tries, but can’t really make his mouth work any further than that. Aziraphale smiles at him softly, even with his brows still furrowed in worry.

“It’s okay, Crowley.”

“Yeah. Um. Sorry,” he mutters eventually, slowly pulling the gown out of the sink. It’s dripping wet both with water and the remains of the wine. Crowley awkwardly holds it out towards Aziraphale and squints, his eyes drifting over the fabric until something in particular catches his eye.

“A… F…?” he mumbles dumbly, his eyes drawn to the tiny letters embroidered in the fabric. “...as fuck?”

There’s a moment of silence and it stretches on while Crowley’s stomach turns with anxiety. To his surprise, though, Aziraphale suddenly bursts into laughter, prompting Crowley to look up at him.

“It’s my initials, dear.”

And at that point it really hits Crowley how ridiculous the entire situation is. Before he knows it, he’s laughing too, fingers gently curled into the fabric and his own sleeves just as drenched.

“Bollocks- right, of course, why the hell would you have _as fuck_ on your robe… oh my god, I can’t believe that I really-” he hiccups and laughs even harder, so much so that he can’t even breathe. He sways on his feet and has to rest a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder to support himself better. They both keep giggling like that for a good couple of minutes until it dies off naturally and leaves Crowley heaving for breath, leaning against Aziraphale and holding his gown.

“Sorry, I’m-” he hiccups, mid-sentence, and wipes at his face, “I’m a mess, angel.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say so,” Aziraphale protests, squeezing his shoulder.

Is he closer, now? Crowley’s certain he’s closer. They’re both leaning in, their hands still on each other’s shoulder, Crowley’s fingers digging into that soft skin. He swallows thickly, breathless once again but for an entire different reason. He doesn’t dare to pull away (not that he wants to), but he also doesn’t move in closer - instead, it’s Aziraphale who leans in, more and more, until his lips reach Crowley’s cheek. Crowley’s eyes flutter shut and he gasps, leaning into that brush of warmth against his skin. He’s transfixed because of it, even if it doesn’t last long - Aziraphale pulls back soon enough, one more squeeze to Crowley’s shoulder before he lets go of it, too.

“Thank you, darling.”

Crowley’s entire face is red - from the tip of his nose, even down to his shoulders. It’s been quite an evening, after all.

* * *

_The first time Crowley met Anathema was, rather fittingly, during Pride. Back then, he had gone for no reason other than to party and to, perhaps, fight some bigots (appropriately, he was clad in steel toe boots, perfect for kicking any dickbag’s arse). With the main part of the parade over, he was heading back to his parking spot (back then it was the shitty Citroen rather than his beautiful Bentley) just in time to see someone on a motorbike bump right into the side of the already banged up car. And, well, if that didn’t get his blood boiling (it was a long time ago, when he was still dealing with anger issues and didn’t quite think through his actions - he had gotten far better, since then, far more capable of handling the intense emotions that washed over him from time to time)._

_“Oi!” he yelled, picking up his pace. “What the hell are you doing, asshole?”_

_The stranger didn’t react immediately. They backed away from the car and got off their bike and then they turned towards him, their face entirely covered by a helmet. When they didn’t respond, Crowley groaned, moving in long strides so that he was standing in front of them, arms crossed on his chest and his entire posture indicating he was ready to fight for his car’s honours if needed._

_“Yes, you! What the hell? You hit my car!”_

_The masked person turned to look over at his car, then back at him. Even with the helmet in the way, Crowley could still hear their heavy sigh. He opened his mouth to holler at them again, but stopped himself when he saw that they finally moved to take off their helmet. They took their time (Crowley thought they were doing it on purpose, just to piss him off even more) and eventually revealed long, brown locks and a sharp face that could be described equally well as handsome and pretty. And maybe Crowley was jealous of the deep red of their lipstick. Just maybe._

_“Yeah. Because you didn’t park right,” they responded simply, their voice slightly deeper than Crowley had expected. He squinted at them, suspicious, then turned to take a look at his own car and… he quickly realized they were right._

_The Citroen was, technically, partially on the parking spot. Half of it, though, was sticking out onto the other one, the one that the bike was occupying. It was no wonder the stranger bumped into it while trying to maneuver between the cars. The damage wasn’t too bad, either - really, Crowley had banged the car up far more on his own. Not knowing what to do or say, he turned towards them, only to see them sticking their hand out towards him._

_“Anathema. She/her. Nice to meet you.”_

* * *

In the present day, Crowley’s laying on his back, on the floor of Anathema and Newt’s flat and staring up at their ceiling. He’s been there for at least half an hour by now, whining as he recounts the events of the photoshoot with Aziraphale.

“And then he kissed me. On the cheek! He bloody kissed me!”

Anathema and Newt, both of them rather used to the sight of Crowley like this, are curled up on the sofa together, drinking wine and eating chocolates. Crowley doesn’t want to consider that this is like good television to them, but he knows that in a way it is - he can’t blame them, either, and he knows they’re genuinely listening him out.

“And then?” Anathema prompts, raising an eyebrow, “Did you two spend the whole night in his bed, _cuddling_?” she whispers the last word as if it was something scandalous and Newt giggles. They’re all a few glasses in, at this point, and rather tipsy.

Crowley groans and glances around for something to throw at her - when he comes up with nothing, he flops back down onto the floor. “No, you bloody witch. We didn’t. We didn’t do anything more than just… that. I helped him clean up, then we decided on another date for the second photoshoot and that was… it.”

“So you got a kiss from someone you think is cute and you’re complaining?” Newt chimes in.

“Ugh- I’m not- that’s not- UGH,” Crowley rolls over on the floor and buries his face in his hands. “That’s not the point! The kiss was nice! But I bloody- I bloody freaked out over his gown and… fuck, I don’t even know if he’s like that with everyone or if it means something or-”

“He’s not,” Newt interrupts and this time Crowley lifts his head to look over at him. “He’s not like that with everyone, I mean. He’s affectionate, yeah, but he doesn’t go around offering expensive wine or giving out kisses to everyone he knows. You either gotta be close with him already or… well.”

“Or he’s gotta be interested in you?” Anathema supplies.

“Yeah. That’s what I think, anyway,” Newt shrugs and then pouts, “He’s never kissed _me_ on the cheek.”

“Awwh,” Anathema cooes, leaning over to press a loud kiss to her boyfriend’s cheek. “You could ask him, y’know. Though I’m pretty sure you’re… y’know. Bit too straight for him. And, well, I don’t know what Crowley would have to say about it,” she pointedly glances over at him.

Crowley huffs and glares at her, “I hate you both,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, yeah, we love you, too.”

Crowley sends another glare her way, but then the expression melts away. With a sigh, he gets himself off the floor and instead makes his way over to the coffee table. He perches on the edge of it and reaches over for his abandoned glass to refill it and then take a long sip of it.

“So. Um. You really think he’s… interested?”

“Yeah, you dumbass,” Anathema responds without skipping a beat, “Pretty sure he is.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to say something, but gets interrupted by a soft ping from his phone. He digs it out of his pocket, unlocks it and then, he finally gets to see the message

**the angel** _Today at 22:24_

_Lunch tomorrow, dear boy._

With a loud shriek of surprise, Crowley drops his phone and falls off the table.

11 \- Crowley has mastered the art of furiously spraying water.

12 \- Crowley, had he not been terribly overwhelmed in that moment, would be able to tell exactly what photoshoot Aziraphale was talking about - [Nude Portraits](https://www.trevorchristensen.com/portfolio/C0000sdDzlEgnI9A/G0000t9910AhfYXE) series by photographer Trevor Christensen, during which the subjects were dressed while the photographer was, well, nude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the art from this chapter on [Tumblr](https://smolalienbee.tumblr.com/post/640148698054164480/aziraphales-wearing-a-dressing-gown-and), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/smolalienbee/status/1349133191114862592) and [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/p/CJ9rD_Tl4qM/)!


	5. Speeding Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this is… this is the moment that the poets Aziraphale so admires would describe in beautiful, flowy verses. They would say, probably, that it felt like coming home, like slotting together puzzle pieces they didn’t even know were misaligned - and, perhaps, that’s how Aziraphale would describe this moment years from now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyoooo this time with a slight delay, but a new chapter is now here!! Writing this one has been a bit of a struggle, but we've finally gotten there. And just like the previous chapter, this one has art! Once again, huge thank you to Linden (under_a_linden_tree) for beta-ing it <3

Aziraphale stands in his bedroom, looking down at the gold dressing gown. The fabric flows between his fingers, shining in the light that comes into the room through the only window in it. He can still see the faintest outline of the wine stain that Crowley has caused the previous night - and the sight of it makes it easy to recall everything that has happened, from Crowley jumping to his feet and rushing to the kitchen up to when they’re both standing next to each other, giggling drunkenly. He can still recall, with strange clarity, the moment he leaned in and his lips pressed to Crowley’s cheek, flushed from the alcohol and the emotions. Aziraphale lifts a hand, the tips of his fingers brushing against his parted lips… and that’s exactly when Anathema bursts into the room.

“There you are!”

He spins around, clutching the gown to his chest and hoping that his cheeks aren’t _too_ red - though with the way Anathema’s looking at him, all inquisitive eyes and furrowed brows, he can already tell she knows what (or who) he was thinking about. From behind her shoulder, Newt peeks out and Aziraphale’s expression softens, his gaze flickering between the both of them.

“I’m quite certain you two are early, dear girl.” He turns away to fold up the gown, eager to put it away before Anathema realizes why he’s holding it so tenderly.

“Tracy let us in. And Anathema thought you may be stressing too much if we don’t get here sooner than planned,” Newt says honestly and earns himself a soft chuckle from her.

“You didn’t have to tell him that.”

Aziraphale smiles and puts the gown down at the foot of the bed. “I appreciate the honesty,” he says and then breathes out heavily. “In any case…”

“In any case, we’re here to help you get ready for your _date_ ,” she interrupts with a clap of her hands. Aziraphale doesn’t even have the time to stop her before she’s already standing in front of his dresser, pulling the doors open with far more force than necessary. As always, Anathema is a force to be reckoned with and so Aziraphale lowers himself down till he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

“It’s not-” he tries, weakly, but he’s immediately interrupted by her.

“We _all_ know it is, Az, don’t be ridiculous.”

Aziraphale puffs out his chest - there’s a part of him that wants to deny it, still, for whatever reason, but he knows better than that and he knows Anathema does, as well. And so, as soon as he inhales deeply, he breathes out and shakes his head.

“Yes, yes, alright,” he agrees reluctantly. “Quite right… Though I do hope… well, I do hope Crowley realizes that, too… I never made it quite clear, I don’t think.”

“Oh, he does,” Anathema assures, turning around and tossing a piece of clothing at him. Newt stands next to her, helping her go through his clothes and holding some of them up for her.

“I don’t see how you…”

“It’s because he’s my best friend, Az. I know him better than anyone. You two will be okay, trust me.”

She has a point, Aziraphale knows so, and so he doesn’t argue anymore. Instead, he glances down at the shirt she had thrown to him. He doesn’t… he’s not sure why the thought of the lunch with Crowley stresses him out quite so much. He has far bigger worries on his mind and yet this is what’s getting to him? One date with someone as terribly kind and pretty as Crowley - and yes, that’s the issue, right there, isn’t it? That Aziraphale _actually_ likes him, that he doesn’t want to mess it up just because this is the one time that he took this chance to take a step further than usual. He’s already prone to excessive worry and overthinking, too, he fusses over everything and dear God, Anathema’s now glaring at him.

“Az.”

“...yes, dear?”

She gives him a knowing look and he flusters, but resolutely keeps his head high, refusing to shy away from her inquisitive eyes. It’s often like this - he’s fairly certain Anathema can read minds which, really, is one of the many things that make her such a good friend.

“Stay with us. And try on the shirt already.”

“Yes, yes, alright…” he mumbles, getting up to do as he was told.

The shirt is one of the light green ones (Aziraphale’s entire wardrobe is mostly filled with blues, beiges and occasional greens) and it’s fitted perfectly to his body so that it’s not too tight and not too loose either. He doesn’t mind changing in front of the two in the room (just like how he didn’t mind posing for Crowley almost entirely naked) and soon enough he’s smoothing the fabric over his own stomach, frowning at himself in a mirror.

“What are you so worried about?” He hears Anathema ask from somewhere behind him. When he glances into the mirror at the right angle, he can see her and Newt, still sorting through his clothes. While she passes a skirt over to her boyfriend, she leans in closer to him and presses a kiss to his cheek, leaving a faint lipstick stain on his skin.

“I wish I could answer that question that easily,” Aziraphale admits with a sigh. “I realize the world isn’t going to end if it doesn’t go well, but…”

“Doesn’t make your feelings any less real, Az,” she points out gently, stepping closer to him to take a better look at the shirt.

“I was terrified, when I asked Anathema out,” Newt adds. There’s a smile that lingers on in his voice and Aziraphale can’t help but brighten up at it as well.

He nods while allowing Anathema to fix the collar of the shirt. “I know, you two are right, of course…” he hums, his eyes trailing after her long fingers, the well-done nails. “It’s just…” he frowns, mulling over his words for a moment. “I don’t find romantic relationships to be… that important. Not as important as they seem to be to most people, in any case… and with the garage, too, it’s...” he trails off and shakes his head silently.

Anathema huffs, “But you like him, yeah?” She clasps his shoulders and smiles. “You like him and you want to spend time with him and… correct me if I’m wrong, but you like him in an entirely different way than you like me or Newt.”

He nods, slowly. As always - Anathema is absolutely correct and putting these feelings into words comes far easier to her than it does to him. Aziraphale has spent so much of his life denying himself these things (this happiness) to really be able to properly vocalize what he feels and how… how happy he just is, when he’s around Crowley. And how much he cares about him already.

“Yes, that’s… you’re right,” he agrees quietly. She pats his shoulder, gently, and then pulls away from him.

“I like this shirt. Let me find you something that matches,” she says, at first, as she makes her way back to the dresser. “Sometimes it’s that simple, you know,” she continues, “You like him, he likes you, so you go on a date. You don’t have to make it more complicated than that and you definitely shouldn’t be comparing the two of you to anyone else. I know it’s-” she hesitates and when Aziraphale looks over his shoulder, he sees that she’s standing still, staring at the fabric as she thinks. “Crowley has a big heart. And he wears it on his sleeve, usually, whenever he’s not trying to play it cool. He’s been hurt, before, too, and I know… it’s easy to worry that if you take this too far you could break his heart. And- hell, maybe that will happen. But that’s not your responsibility, you know? You’re both adults. The best you can do is be honest with him.”

As she finishes, she looks up at him and their eyes meet. Aziraphale gives himself a moment to process everything that she’s said and then his eyes soften.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “It does feel good to hear these things. Especially when, well-” there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes now and his smile widens, “I know how close the two of you are and I must say I was worried about the consequences of accidentally breaking his heart.”

“No consequences as long as you don’t do it on purpose,” she tells him, taking a pair of pants from Newt and then stepping closer to him. “And I don’t think you’d ever _want_ to break his or anyone else’s heart, Az.” With that, she hands the pants over to him. “Try these.”

“Definitely not his,” Aziraphale agrees softly.

***

It’s almost time and Crowley isn’t there. No, never mind that, it’s _already_ time and he should be there, exactly right now, and he’s not and no, it’s not like Aziraphale thinks he’s ditched him, he’s just worried because something could have happened and he’s in his living room, dressed up13, and Crowley _isn’t there_. The darling was supposed to pick him up from the garage and they were supposed to drive together to the restaurant in his Bentley. Then, they’d take a walk through the park and then Crowley would take him back so that they can part for the night. That is, of course, if Crowley shows up _at all_.

Aziraphale has been pacing around his living room for a while. He finally stops, deciding to at least try some of the breathing exercises he knows (best not to go into full blown panic if he can help it). Exactly when he begins counting, he hears the doorbell. His heart nearly leaps out of his throat and he instantly rushes downstairs to get the door. When finally pulls it open, he’s torn between even more concern and incredible relief - because Crowley is here, finally, standing on the other side of his threshold, and he’s as beautiful as ever, but he also looks just as panicked as Aziraphale feels. And oh goodness, he’s holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Hi. Hey,” Crowley stutters, “Sorry I’m late. Traffic. ‘S bullshit. Um. Got you- got you flowers,” he fumbles and mumbles and holds out the bouquet. The blues of the flowers are a stark contrast to the color of Crowley’s face (reddened with a blush) as well as his outfit. He’s as sleek as always, all in black and dark red - a shirt with the very top button undone, a blazer on top of it, tight pants that seem slightly more casual than anything above his waist. Aziraphale _knows_ he’s not underdressed himself, but he certainly feels like it for just a couple moments as he takes a look at Crowley.

“Oh… darling,” he coos and all the tension escapes him along with those words. He gingerly takes the flowers from Crowley and his face is a show of true, tender happiness as he breathes them in. “These are wonderful- please, do come in. I’ll just get them into some water and then we can go.”

Crowley nods, dazedly, and follows Aziraphale inside - though he doesn’t go all the way upstairs as Aziraphale rushes to get the flowers into the water. He smiles, once they’re situated on the coffee table (they’re truly a wonderful, bright sight among all the old books and dusty knick knacks) and then he makes his way back downstairs.

“After you, dear,” Aziraphale gestures towards the door and they both pile outside. Aziraphale locks the door behind them and as he turns towards the Bentley, he sees Crowley’s already by the passenger door, holding it open for him. _Oh, I really want to kiss him now_ , he thinks to himself as he makes his way to the car. He slides into the seat with a gentle brush of his hand against Crowley’s side. Crowley squeaks at the touch and then, wordlessly, gets himself settled in the driver’s side.

It’s only once they’re both in the car that they take a proper breath and look at each other. Crowley hasn’t even started the engine yet - they’re just sitting there, outside of Aziraphale’s garage, and gazing at each other. Aziraphale doesn’t mind.

“So,” Crowley starts. It seems like they both feel as though they should say something before they leave for the restaurant.

“You look absolutely dashing today, darling,” Aziraphale continues for him. Crowley makes a noise like an engine that sputters and struggles to start. His cheeks are dusted pink once again.

“You- you, too, angel,” he manages to respond, his gaze flickering between the dashboard and Aziraphale’s face.

“We should go.”

“Right, yeah. Yeah, lemme- just-” Crowley fumbles with the controls and then the Bentley roars to life. He doesn’t ever finish the sentence - instead he pulls onto the road and drives them towards the restaurant they previously agreed on. Aziraphale can’t quite stop smiling as he watches his profile. He still thinks about Anathema’s words from earlier. It’s going to be okay, he thinks. They’re going to be okay.

* * *

“You’re a bloody mechanic, angel!” Crowley exclaims loudly, making a wide gesture with his arm and nearly knocking a hand into a waiter that passes by their table. “Shouldn’t that mean you’re good at driving, too?”

They’re seated in the restaurant, opposite of one another. Crowley, as usual, is sprawled in his chair, long limbs sticking out in all directions. He has a glass in one hand (just sparkling water, as he’s driving) and he waves it around, nearly splashing out all of its contents. Aziraphale is more settled, back straight and hands folded on the edge of the table.

“Well- I’m good at fixing them, dear. It doesn’t mean I’m…” he trails off and shrugs. “It doesn’t mean I’m particularly good at driving them.”

“I don’t believe that. I was in a car with you! You were fine!”

“Well, yes, I’m not so bad that I crash every single time I drive, my dear. I also _have_ gotten better since then.” He pauses to take a nibble of his cake. “But, there was that one time when I managed to half fall into a ditch,” he continues. As he does, Crowley shifts around in his chair so that he’s leaning forward, both elbows on the table, all high attention now that Aziraphale’s telling him another story of the past. “One wheel was completely up in the air. I had to bring five people from the garage to pull at the car while I backed it up.”

Crowley’s eyebrows at this point are raised so high up that they’re nearly halfway up his forehead, scrunching it up in a rather amusing way. Aziraphale stares back at the black circles of his glasses and a beat passes before Crowley finally breaks into laughter.

“That’s amazing,” he huffs, shaking his head. “So you’re really… really bad? I guess I should be the one driving, then, from now on.”

“As long as that means that we’ll go out together again, yes.”

Aziraphale’s response is almost immediate and completely thoughtless - as soon as he speaks, two things happen: one, Crowley flushes all over his face, up to the tips of his ears, and two, several incomprehensible noises slip past his lips. That reaction is more than enough and for a brief moment, Aziraphale thinks he may have pushed too far - but the implication was right there, wasn’t it? That if Crowley had to drive, then there’d more reasons for them to go out… or so he hoped, in any case.

“Yeah,” Crowley finally squeaks out. He’s shifted, again, so that he’s now sprawled back, though an arm remains outstretched on the table. It’s terribly obvious that he’s trying to play it cool even while he’s embarrassed. “That- I can do that, angel.”

“Oh, lovely,” Aziraphale brightens. And, once again, he doesn’t even think twice before he’s reaching a hand out towards Crowley’s. He touches the back of his hand and at that Crowley makes a startled noise in the back of his throat. Aziraphale has half a mind to pull back - except that’s when Crowley turns his hand around so that it’s palm up on top of the table. Aziraphale stares at it briefly and then he smiles, a bright genuine thing, and lowers his hand so that it’s properly rested in his palm. Crowley’s hand is smooth and chilly, though it warms up quickly as long fingers tangle with his.

“Is this…” Crowley’s gaze flickers between their hands and Aziraphale’s face. “Is this okay?” he asks, quietly.

“Yes, dearest,” he assures, squeezing his hand as if to prove a point. “It’s more than okay, really.”

Crowley nods, his eyes now only on their hands. Silence falls between them, but it’s… Aziraphale finds that he doesn’t mind so much. Not when he gets to hold Crowley’s hand like this. Not when he knows that they’re… they’re good, like this, and that Crowley, perhaps, wants the same things as he does. That this could be simpler than he initially thought.

And the rest of the lunch passes well.

* * *

A few days pass before Aziraphale finds himself standing in front of the mirror on the day of the second photoshoot. He sighs as he looks back at his own reflection in the mirror.

Crowley’s already downstairs, clanking around the garage as he looks for a good place to shoot (today he’s far more organized and thoughtful about it. Perhaps a lot of it has to do with the fact that Aziraphale isn’t nearly naked). Meanwhile, Aziraphale is still in his bedroom and still staring at himself.

This time, he’s, well, dressed. A beige turtleneck, a waistcoat that’s been with him for many years, a long blue skirt. He even pulled out two pride pins (it is a charity queer calendar, after all) - one with the genderqueer flag and the other with the trans flag. Far more appropriate than the gown he’s worn the previous time - though he was rather happy to wear it, happy to have pictures taken of it.

Aziraphale’s relationship with his body is… complicated at best. He doesn’t hate it - in fact, he’s rather proud of it or, he’s learned to be, many years after he’s gotten away from his family and their shameful words, many years after he’s made peace with his own queerness and his gender. It’s far easier, now, to walk out nearly naked and let someone he doesn’t know well capture his body in photographs, but there are still days - days like this one - when he doubts himself. When he doubts the way the waistcoat frames his wide stomach, when he questions the way a skirt flows down his thick thighs. When he wonders whether he really has any right to wear the pins on his chest. He’s not sure why it’s getting to him tonight - perhaps it’s the thought of another photoshoot stressing him out, perhaps it’s just been a long day, perhaps it’s both.

He glances at the time. He should get going now, he’s kept Crowley waiting for long enough and there’s not much use in standing around like this and staring at his own reflection. He smooths his hands down his waistcoat and then, finally, turns away from the mirror.

When he makes his way downstairs, Crowley’s nowhere to be seen. Aziraphale spends a moment just looking around the garage, but he can’t find him anywhere. His search is eventually interrupted by his phone pinging - and that, also, solves the mystery of Crowley’s disappearance. _“I’m outside, angel,”_ the text simply reads. And so, Aziraphale heads out.

He spots Crowley near the side of the building, setting up his camera in front of a broken car that’s been standing there for quite a while now. Aziraphale approaches slowly, raising an eyebrow.

“I thought you’d rather do it inside,” he comments as he comes closer. Crowley looks up at him and his eyes linger on him for a good moment. Finally, he smiles and shrugs.

“Yeah, well- saw this car out here earlier,” he gestures with his head towards it, “Shooting inside is easier, but I thought it’d be nice to take pictures here.”

He shrugs again, bashful, and Aziraphale can’t stop himself. He steps closer, reaches a hand out to gently place it on his arm. “You _are_ the photographer here, I’m quite certain you know better than me what works. I’m not going to argue,” he hums. Crowley mumbles something in response and tilts his head away, evidently trying to hide a blush.

Aziraphale gently squeezes his arm and then pulls away. He makes his way over to the car - its back is turned towards the camera and the boot is open wide. Aziraphale touches the side of it absentmindedly and huffs a quiet laugh when the camera’s flash goes off.

“Dearest, must you really?”

When he turns around, Crowley’s pointedly not looking at him. Instead, he’s fiddling with the camera, as innocently as he can manage. Aziraphale breathes out a laugh and shakes his head. He doesn’t mind, not really, but he does find it amusing, the amount of times Crowley has attempted to be sneaky with his pictures.

When no response comes, Aziraphale moves to get settled in the boot of the car. He carefully sits down on the very edge of it, his feet dangling outside of the car. He shuffles around a bit to try and get more comfortable, not paying much attention to Crowley as he does. When he looks up, though, the darling’s eyes are right on him - his sunglasses pushed up onto the top of his head and his eyes furrowed in concentration. Aziraphale opens his mouth to ask what’s the matter, but he doesn’t get to.

“Do you have some cardboard? A stool or- or a box and some fabric would be good, too…”

“Um-” Aziraphale pauses, taken aback by the question, “All of these should be in the garage, yes. Why-”

“Thread, too? Or rope?”

“I’d think so, yes- you should be able to find it around my workstation, I can go with you-”

“No, no, stay there,” Crowley waves his arm, frantically gesturing for Aziraphale to stay where he is. “I’ll be right back!”

Crowley disappears before Aziraphale has a chance to question him in any way. He’s left alone, perched in the boot of the car and with the tripod set up in front of him. He exhales, slowly, and glances up at the sky above him, already darkening. He has no idea what’s going through Crowley’s mind and while his thoughts keep desperately clinging to the image that he saw earlier in the mirror, he tries his best to ignore them.

Not much time passes before Crowley returns - his arms are full and he appears to be carrying a stool, and dark blue fabric as well as two pieces of cardboard. Aziraphale stands up, ready to help him out, but he hurriedly assures him that he’s fine. And so he just watches as Crowley staggers over to him and plops all the items down.

“What is all of this dear?” he asks softly.

“Well,” Crowley first picks up the stool. He places it in front of the car and then drapes the blue fabric over the top of it. It’s a lighter shade than Aziraphale’s skirt, but it still matches. “I just thought - you can lean on this,” he interrupts himself as he gestures at the stool, “-I thought, something’s missing,” he continues, turning around to grab the cardboard. Now that he picks it up, Aziraphale can take a better look at it - and he sees Crowley has already cut it out into the shape of wings.

“Is that…”

“Um.” Crowley looks up at him, then away. He holds the cardboard wings a little higher up and takes a hesitant step closer. “I mean, it’s-” he shrugs. For a moment, it looks as though he’s going to back away, as though he’s changed his mind - but then he presses on, “It suits you, I think. Angel and all.”

Aziraphale can’t stop the smile from blooming on his face. Of course, Crowley’s been calling him angel for a while now, and he’s managed to get rather used to it (not that it ever stopped being pleasant), but it’s a completely different thing, for him to acknowledge it in such a way.

“Oh, darling…”

Crowley stammers and pouts, turning away from Aziraphale (even though it’s pointless - Aziraphale knows him well enough to know that he’s blushing up to the tips of his ears). “Shuddup, angel,” he mutters, busying himself with hanging the wings on the top of the car. Aziraphale stays where he is and he doesn’t say anything more as he watches Crowley work. He fiddles with the cardboard for quite a while until he finally manages to get it to hang just right, so that it frames Aziraphale from both sides.

“There,” he murmurs as he takes a step back. Aziraphale turns, causing Crowley to grimace and flap his arms urgently. “Don’t move so much! This isn’t- ehhh- it’s kinda wonky. Pretty sure they will fall off if you bump into them.”

“I’ll do my best,” Aziraphale responds, turning back towards him. “It’s very sweet of you.”

“What?” Crowley has already made his way over to the camera. He’s distracted, fiddling with the settings on the equipment as he moves the tripod around and tries to fix the angle. “‘s just cardboard, angel.”

“Well, you quite literally gave me wings, darling. I think it’s sweet.”

“You’re terrible,” Crowley mutters into the viewfinder. “Bastard angel is what you are.”

“Oh, and why is that? Because I say _nice things_ about you?”

“Yeah, exactly. Keep running your mouth and I’ll catch you with it open,” Crowley teases and Aziraphale just laughs. He hears the camera go off as soon as he does and it just makes him laugh harder, all earlier worries gone. The kind of attention that he gets, with Crowley behind the camera, is something that he enjoys far more than he ever thought he would. He preens whenever the flash goes off and chuckles whenever Crowley makes some pointed remark (clearly meant to make him laugh. It works every single time). The way Crowley looks at him helps, too, how his eyes seem to glow with wonder as if he had never seen Aziraphale before. Aziraphale lets himself float in all these feelings, all through the photoshoot, as the world around them gets darker and darker. He’s brought out of it eventually when a sudden shiver runs through him and Crowley pauses in front of the camera.

“We should finish up,” he comments. Aziraphale blinks. He feels as though he had just woken up, startled from a pleasant dream. It hits him just then how cold it’s gotten.

“It’s rather late now, isn’t it?” he hums in agreement, slowly shifting to sit on the very edge of the boot. As soon as he does, Crowley’s at his side, reaching for his arm to help him down to the ground. Aziraphale is startled by the sudden movement and leans into him, the warmth of his body, that wonder in his still uncovered eyes…

“Dear?”

“...yeah, angel? Wassup?”

Aziraphale twists his body to face Crowley properly. He reaches out, an arm up in the air, till he can touch the edge of Crowley’s jaw with the tips of his fingers. Crowley frowns, though he leans into the touch nonetheless.

“Angel?” he prompts again and Aziraphale can’t help the smile that crawls onto his face at the way Crowley says it. He somehow puts so much weight, so much _warmth_ into that one word. It does something to Aziraphale that he doesn’t quite know how to describe (he may enjoy poetry a whole lot, but he’s no poet himself).

“Would it be alright if I kissed you?” he practically breathes out the words, hopeful and nervous at once. “On the lips, I mean… I wouldn’t want to assume…”

“Yeah.” Aziraphale doesn’t get to finish as Crowley cuts in with a response. He’s leaning closer, already, his cheek now properly cupped in Aziraphale’s hand. “Please.”

Aziraphale smiles and with just a nod he closes the rest of the distance between them. He strokes Crowley’s cheek gently as their lips touch and press against each other. And this is… this is the moment that the poets Aziraphale so admires would describe in beautiful, flowy verses. They would say, probably, that it felt like coming home, like slotting together puzzle pieces they didn’t even know were misaligned - and, perhaps, that’s how Aziraphale would describe this moment years from now. Currently, though, all he can think about is the warmth of Crowley’s lips, the soft skin against his palm - and also, that the poor darling is shivering against him as a gust of cold wind breezes past them.

Aziraphale pulls back slowly, then surges in just for one more quick peck (it makes Crowley chuckle and Aziraphale feels his heart thrum even harder in his chest) before he speaks, “Stay the night, dear.”

“What?”

“It’s late,” he points out. They’re still so close that he can feel Crowley’s breath on his face. “I don’t want you to have to drive home at this hour. Stay the night? There’s plenty of space upstairs, the sofa unfolds, too..”

“...are you sure?”

“Quite so, yes. In fact, enough so that I won’t take no for an answer.”

He takes a step back. As soon as he does, Crowley reaches for his hand and Aziraphale’s face softens as he squeezes it tightly.

“Okay, angel. I’ll stay.”

13 \- He even put lipstick on and that's something he only wears on particularly special occasions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the art from this chapter on [Tumblr](https://smolalienbee.tumblr.com/post/640592792749490176/the-kind-of-attention-that-he-gets-with-crowley), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/smolalienbee/status/1350909634576576513) and [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/p/CKKQ9wHlYlL/)!

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on instagram/tumblr/twitter as smolalienbee! I'm always available for excited yelling!!


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